


All Comes Down To

by theunremarkable



Series: Kodaline [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, I love these boys but they sure as hell don't communicate, I swear, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, To Be Continued, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, but they love each other - Freeform, mature themes, no actual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 175,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunremarkable/pseuds/theunremarkable
Summary: As Steve tries to learn about what he’s missed in the past 66 years, he finds the hardest part is relearning Bucky.But he has to try, no matter the cost to himself, because in the end- Bucky? Well, that’s what it all comes down to.~A story about the trials and tribulations of waking up in a different century, yet oddly enough, it's not the when that's the most frustrating part...
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Phil Coulson & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: Kodaline [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815748
Comments: 569
Kudos: 601





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Each of the stories in The Kodaline Series will be accompanied by a little soundtrack by Kodaline that inspired the work, either by title, lyrics, feelings or otherwise.
> 
> I mean, essentially, yes, it all comes down to Bucky. But also, lyrics? _*chef's kiss*_
> 
> [All Comes Down, by Kodaline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOD43neIwO4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, not sleep. Bucky’s here, so he must be dead. Steve’s willing to go wherever the darkness takes him, hoping it will once again bring him back here.

Steve’s first thought as he floats into consciousness is that he is cold. He’s more than that, his body is brumal, chilled right through to his soul, fully frozen. He knows that he is trapped in an endless iceland, so bright and white, although he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. It's just something he can feel in his very essence, a cold that Erskine promised to relieve him from forever. The same cold he knew Bucky had been suffering silently since Krausberg, adamant not to admit it to anyone, not even Steve.

 _Bucky._

The second thought, he supposes, hurts, cuts him deeper than the cold, pains him more than the force of the plane, and it comes out as a breath. It’s warm, and reflexively his eyebrows furrow slightly. He’s so cold that he knows his exhalation should turn to crystals before it even leaves his mouth, tearing at his throat and nose on the way out in a way that will leave him raw for days.

He’s confused, but not complaining. His lungs and throat have battled daggers in them long enough to ever be ungrateful for a reprieve. 

The third thought is that he’s not alone.

No, that’s not possible. Schmidt- he was, it couldn’t be, the _sky_ , opened to the heavens themselves, it-

There’s a warmth in his hand, a flutter of movement. Perhaps he was saved, though stubborn not to be, declined to give Peggy coordinates, said it was his choice. But she is smart enough, Howard smart enough, both of them as determined as Steve would ever be. Together, maybe more.

Steve rolls his head slightly, frowning deeper as he recognises the rough of the hand in his. One that’s pulled him up off the ground too many times to count, rubbed his back to loosen up phlegm, clasped the back of his neck in a hug since they were boys.

It’s too much of an effort to open his eyes, so he stills, listening further, focusing on the lines pressed to his palm.

And they’re definitely familiar, if not more so than his own body.

Using the entirety of his strength, he peels his eyelids up. They open only for a second, quickly projecting the image of a cheek pillowed to the back of his hand, and confirms a hidden hand laced underneath his.

It’s all the time he needs.

With a sigh of contentment, he allows sleep to pull him back under.

No, not sleep. Bucky’s here, so he must be dead. Steve’s willing to go wherever the darkness takes him, hoping it will once again bring him back here. 

“Stevie?” Bucky croaks faintly though a rustle of movement, but Steve is already drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapters will be longer, this is just a preface to tie in with the events of All I Want.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alive, not dead. Not dead, alive. That’s not the shocking part, to Steve. He’s forgone any sort of surprise at what his body can do since he accidentally lifted an entire car door like a dinner plate by the docks.
> 
> No, the disbelief comes from the Bucky part of being here.

Steve approaches consciousness a second time with far less serenity.

He’s frustrated, and cold again. He didn’t seem to notice the chill between _then_ and _now,_ but his mind is now telling him that he is no longer betwixt and he can’t focus on anything except the shivers that threaten to rattle his brain. If he opens his eyes, maybe he can get up and move, get warm. Or maybe not, for death is cold. He knows that all too well. He’s seen it on the front, and felt it when Bucky died.

He sighs. 

This time awakening, if that’s a word for it, he’s not as perceptive, because it takes him much longer to realise that his left hand is still being held. He’s further aggrieved when he realises that it’s warm, almost burning him, but it’s the only part of his body that is safe from the frost. 

It’s going to be an awful long afterlife if he’s going to be teased like this.

He contemplates not opening his eyes. With eternity to face it, he supposes he can take all the time he wants to get there.

But something is trailing lines of fire across the back of his hand, blazing, and he realises that it’s a thumb. His hand is trapped by another hand, being caressed, only pausing where the edge of the nail catches near his palm. It's moving back and forth in constant light pressure, comforting, and that’s enough to spark Steve’s curiosity to face the world beyond.

His eyes take a few tries to open this time, fluttering in their efforts. When they do, they have to blink, each time expecting the sight before him to disappear. He’d forgotten what awaited him, clearly, or he would have attempted this instantly.

“Hiya, Stevie.” 

“Bucky?” 

It is Bucky. But-

Bucky, if someone else was in his body, and had taken control of it, slightly changing his expression and body language. Or translated Steve’s description of his memory of Bucky, though only a few days in between, and provided their best animated sketch.

As a whole, he decides in his shock, his awe, his paralysing confusion, it _is_ Bucky. His jawline is as hard as ever, a few days growth poking through. His nose, his ears, his bare throat, the width of his shoulders, the way he’s leaned forward, his right hand holding Steve’s left.

But he's just off, and it’s glaring in it’s details. His hair is longer, much, his cheekbones more prominent, and for all his shoulders are the same width Steve knows, they’re slanted, slightly uneven, as if something is weighing him down on one side. There’s a stiffness about him, rigid in a way that his military posture could never.

The biggest difference, and the worst, is Bucky’s face. He’s looking at Steve, a million expressions in one. The brightest that shines though is tender affection, only marginally beating relief, but underneath it he can see expectancy and impatience, exhaustion and a well contained fear, that only Steve could ever pick out. But for all that he’s showing and hiding, everything about Bucky screams that grief. 

The smile, though fond, is tight around the corners, not crinkling up at his eyes like Steve knows it should. His eyes, which are sad, his shoulders, tight but sad, even the path his thumb is following is somehow sad. 

“How are you feeling?”

Sad.

He’s not sure that he actually is, but the only presence in the room is screaming him he should be. 

Confused, is perhaps the most prominent feeling. Or cold. Either of those would suffice, but the words don’t come out.

“What do you remember?”

“You're dead.” That’s what he remembers, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Nah. And neither are you.”

“I-, I don’t understand.”

“It takes a lot more than that to keep two Brooklyn boys down.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else, because honestly, he’s not sure where to even start. He and Bucky have long surpassed verbal communication, so he keeps his eyes on Bucky, searching his face, attempting to solve what Bucky has not yet told. The caress on his hand continues, thankfully, as it’s the main thing grounding Steve, still keeping him warm, anchoring him to the bed he knows by all odds he should not be in. Bucky too studies Steve, but it’s not mirrored with his confusion, just a compassionate concern.

“Where are we?”

“You're in a hospital in D.C,” he says gently. Even the words, their meaning, upsets Bucky. 

“What happened?”

“You're a dumb fuckin' idiot who tried to land a plane in the water, is what. You know that's not how they work, you’ve got to put them down on solid ground. I’ll give you a lesson sometime.” He’s smiling, larger this time, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s an empty joke, at best.

That- that bit is true, he is sure. That much he remembered, but between then and now- between his despair at Bucky’s death, and his still sadness at Bucky’s presence, he is still confused.

“You've been asleep for a while, you were… Hurt,” Bucky settles on, and Steve’s not quite sure it’s the truth. He doesn’t feel hurt, or in pain, though he is tired and cold, so perhaps it’s not entirely inaccurate. 

"How long is a while?" He asks, and he can’t help the flicker of his eyes to Bucky hair. It’s longer, so long, almost like a dame’s. Bucky smiles again, and Steve decides with certainty, the only he’s felt so far beside the cold, that he hates this new smile. Though he knows Bucky means it to be comforting, it’s a ghost of what it should be, despite saying neither of them are dead.

“Is the war over?” Bucky’s ghost smile falls a little, as if that’s not what he wants to hear from Steve. He nods, regardless. “Did we win?”

"No one wins a war. But yes. You did your bit, you did it, and the world loves you for it. You can meet your adoring fans once you’re b- in a bit." 

Steve scowls a little at the catch, and it twitches Bucky’s lips slightly. This reaction, at least, is genuine, real, is Bucky from Brooklyn, forcing him to stay inside until the fever is gone. "So I'm not dead?”

“Nah,” Bucky replies, leaning forward to stare at Steve as if gauging his reaction, as he knows it didn’t sink in the first time. His thumb has stopped its movement, but not the pressure. 

“And you're not dead?"

Bucky shakes his head, but only slightly, as if he’s afraid to look away for too long.

“Peggy?” 

“She’s doing just fine, Stevie.” Bucky reaches his hand up to Steve’s wrist, squeezing gently, and the warmth follows. “We can go see her once you’re better,” he gets the word out fully this time, but it’s still hesitant, as if it’s not exactly true. 

Steve didn’t realise he’d lifted off the bed, not cot or medical lay, and falls back on the pillow, looking up to the roof, avoiding Bucky’s gaze.

Alive, not dead. Not dead, alive. That’s not the shocking part, to Steve. He’s forgone any sort of surprise at what his body can do since he accidentally lifted an entire car door like a dinner plate by the docks.

No, the disbelief comes from the Bucky part of being _here_. 

Bucky fell, was torn from Steve’s grip, of that he’s sure, because nothing else could ever make him feel an absolute anguish like that. Like the whole world itself had stopped spinning, that there was no reason to breathe, to even exist. He fell, further than Steve could see even with the serum, into ice, into water, into rocks. He fell, and Steve watched until he could see no more, not even the same country he fell from. He fell, and Steve’s whole reason for being fell with him, so much that he couldn’t move until Gabe himself wrestled him inside the train.

But, as Steve thinks through it, he dwells on the ideas he’d never spoken for fear they would be true. Bucky endured and survived the table, the one that Steve secretly and selfishly blessed everyday since he found him, even if Bucky looked a little haunted by it and muffled his screams at night. And survived a brush of a bullet that Steve never thought was just a graze but Bucky walked on, so they all just took his word for it. And kicked a Nazi so hard Steve was sure he heard his spine snap in two, Bucky grimacing as though he heard it too.

It’s Bucky and Steve, Steve and Bucky. Surely the universe would never separate them, that there was some sort of cosmic deal to keep them alive, no matter the cost.

And even if it isn’t true, if this is a fever dream or a Hydra drug, Steve is not sure he really minds, if the end result is Bucky being _here._ Even this, Bucky, yet not-quite-Bucky. 

"Are you okay, Stevie?"

“I thought-. I didn't think,” Steve tries.

“Yeah?”

“You wouldn't make it to heaven,” he says slyly, with a hint of his own grin.

There’s a flash in Bucky’s eyes, one that Steve doesn’t recognise, one that causes a small wave of panic. As soon as it wets the corners of his heart, the look is gone, replaced by a deep throated chuckle that Steve does know, which only does more to confuse him. It takes a while to warm up, like it’s unused, but it reaches full throttle in no time. "Anyone ever tell you you're a little shit?" 

"Yeah, you," and the grin grows. 

Bucky’s eyes haven’t left his face this whole time, but all of a sudden they’re glistening, Steve understands in a sort of horror, with tears. They don’t do tears, not unless it’s for good reason. Bucky knows he picks up on it because he says, “Yeah, I said I wouldn’t cry but guess I’m just a sap. It’s just-, it’s been a while, Stevie. Missed you a bit, is all.”

There’s so much more that Steve wants to ask. How did Bucky get here, how long has it been, how exactly, why his body is so stiff and face so tight. And why does he look so sad that Steve is here, only pretending, faking, to be happy.

And above all, _Stevie?_

God, he’s an open book, because as the words swirl in his mind, Bucky asks “Do you trust me?"

Steve nods, ignoring when it pushes at the lump in his throat.

“Then, please, just let me take care of you.”

He nods again, and impossibly his eyelids feel heavier than anything he could ever fight, though he doesn’t think it’s been that long since they first opened. Though they shut of their own accord, his brain takes longer to wind down. He thinks of Bucky’s pretense, and copies, to elucidate his own mind.

There’s something just plain _wrong_ with the whole situation but whatever it is, he’s going to allow it for now. Because even if it’s some concocted version of Bucky, or an odd sort of hell they’re in even though Steve tried so hard to do right, he’s done a fair job of getting him mostly right, so he’s going to hold on to it for as long as he can while he perform his reconnaissance. At the very least, he’s warm again, with Bucky’s hand still on his wrist, and the bed is just the sort of soft firmness he can actually fall asleep on.

If Bucky’s speaking the truth, and based on his hair alone, he’s already slept a long time, but he could sleep some more.

When he wakes again, there are no clues to how much time has passed since their earlier conversation, but Bucky’s still here, still looking at him as if he never stopped. His hair isn’t any longer, at least, but Steve supposes it could always be cut. 

He still doesn’t feel any more rested, and this time, on top of being cold, he’s hungry to the point he’s not sure he can ignore.

But Bucky’s ability to still read his mind is soon ever present, and there’s a childish sort of gratefulness when Bucky murmurs, quietly as if there’s anyone else in the room to be disturbed, “How bout some food?”

There’s a knock on the door, and Bucky opens it to take a tray. Steve sits himself up to get a better look past the doorway, to see anyone else, but Bucky’s quick and smooth, kicking the door shut before Steve can note anymore than a blank wall and blacked out windows beyond.

“Is that steak?” Steve asks, not caring that there’s apparent awe in his voice. Anything is better than the rations he last remembered eating, but this? Steak? Something about ‘Not-quite-Bucky’, he’s dubbed him, isn’t sitting right, even more so this time around, but he’s not going to pass up a steak. Even if it was laced with poison and Bucky could turn into a mirage and fade away, what a way to go. He could think of worse, he’s definitely seen worse, and thinking Bucky was dead? Well nothing could be worse than that.

And apparently Steve survived even that. 

“Sure is, Stevie. You can have all the steak you want from now on. Or anything else, just let me know. Whatever you want.”

Bucky smiles, but it's still tinged with sadness. Neither have had steak since the war started, so steak should not be sad, but perhaps the war has passed long enough for Bucky’s hair to be long and steaks to grow on trees. 

His desolation is concerning and unwarranted based on Steve’s current intel. It’s almost off putting, but he tries to focus on the new addition to the room.

It’s a large portion, a thick steak with a big dollop of mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, probably actually enough to satiate him, a rare occasion. There’s sauce, too. He wants to inhale it, doesn’t care that it could make him sick, he’s so hungry, as hungry as he ever was growing up. But he pauses. Now faced with actually eating poison, well- that’s harder than crashing a plane. 

“Are you eating?”

“I’ve already eaten.”

Somewhere, behind the door that the food just came through, comes a snort and Bucky scowls, so dark it makes Steve laugh. While he may not be exactly what Steve remembers, that right there is stolen from a 14 year old chided Bucky, and the laugh helps maintain Steve’s act of acceptance.

“We’re being watched?” He asks casually, as he cuts into the steak, because Not-quite-Bucky doesn’t seem concerned, by the noise nor the implication. 

“Protected. Protection, that’s all,” Bucky promises, and almost instinctively goes to reach onto the bed, where Steve’s hand was. He jerks back when he realises Steve needs it to eat, and instead places it onto his lap. It’s not a mannerism he knows, it’s only half of it, when he doesn’t bring his left hand to greet it like he would normally. 

“Who from?” He continues, adding potato to the fork.

“No one in particular. It’s just a precaution.”

“Are you worried I’m going to do something?”

“I’m always worried you’re going to do something,” and Steve can’t keep up with his own ever changing feelings, because he’s momentarily relaxed again at the comment, all doubts vanished.

“So who’s out there?”

“The SSR.”

Steve looks to the door as he continues chewing. He tries to keep his face blank, but his eyes must glint with contemplation.

“Look, Stevie, you’re not a prisoner here. You can walk out at any time and no one’s going to stop you, least of all me. But this,” he gestures with his hand, his right only, “It’s going to be confusing, and a lot to take in, and I wanna help you through it, because, hell, I’m living it and I still don’t understand half of it. So just trust me, please?”

He nods, as if they’re just talking about the weather, but a vague answer isn’t enough. He’s still going to press, now that he’s awake and Bucky is answering.

"They let you keep your hair like that?"

"I'm not in the army anymore."

“I thought you said we were with the SSR.”

“Of sorts. Obviously Project Rebirth and all its side pieces were no longer needed once the war stopped, but like I said, no one really wins a war. There were still factions, groups that could cause trouble, people who were unhappy, so the SSR was still needed. Eventually got absorbed by a larger group known as S.H.I.E.L.D, so now the SSR is closer to a subdivision of something bigger. S.H.I.E.L.D is still a government branch, counter-terrorism and intelligence, both national and global, so for all intents and purposes they’re the SSR you know. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D now, and they don’t care about your hair, just what you can do.” 

“Are you allowed to be telling me this?”

“I can tell you anything I want,” and there’s a bit of the confidence of Bucky from Brooklyn streets that Steve hasn’t seen in so long, not even commanding as a Sergeant.

“What are you, giving out the orders or something?”

And that knocks the confidence right out of him. “For now.”

Steve is eating, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything for his hunger. He’s not quite sure what he’s more famished for, answers or food. Never one to back down from a challenge, he keeps trying to absolve both at the same time.

“It’s long. Your hair,” he explains to Bucky’s confusion. “It’s long” 

“What, you don’t like it?” The tone is light but he looks annoyed.

Steve would be irked too. He’s pretty sure he’d notice how long his own hair is, and wouldn’t need anyone to point it out. Steve's for sure is exactly or close enough to the length he knows it to be. But that’s not what he’s asking, his own Bucky was never quite that thick, so he spells it out. “How long does it take to grow it that long? I’m trying to think but I can’t remember Becca’s.”

“Long enough. You’ve been asleep a while-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, a while now. So you can tell me about SSR, S.H.I.E.L.D or whoever they are, but not how long it takes to grow your hair out?”

“I will, I’ll tell you everything. Just after you’ve eaten, once you’ve settled in a bit. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Can I see Peggy?” Steve tries, because he can feel himself getting frustrated. This at least, could be constituted as a real scenario, because Bucky’s always tried to coddle him, to protect him even though he never needed it. 

In part, that's why he wants to see Peggy. She wouldn’t fuss around, she’d tell him straight, concern be damned. He could prep himself a little, to explain the plane, but if it'd give him answer, well, it might be worth it.

“Not right now.”

“Why not?” It’s sharp and hard, his Captain's voice that he hates and reserves for dire situations. Such as this.

“She’s unwell.”

Steve pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth and narrows his eyes. “You said she was fine.”

“You of all people know that you can be unwell and fine at the same time.” And suddenly Bucky’s own voice is commanding, leaving no doubt that he is, in fact, in charge. “I said she’s fine, and I mean it. She’s not going anywhere, and you can, if you really want it. But please don’t.” The last three words come out as a plea, a beg, and Steve thinks even Bucky is a little shocked by them, tries to chase them back. In the end, he closes his mouth around the empty air in a pout, and speaks no more.

“Are you fine?” Steve switches tactics, because the voice did actually work in his heart and mind. He knows when Bucky is going to be too darn stubborn, that if he pushes Peggy it’ll end in a fight. That he’s not actually sure he would win, not with so little details, on only half a meal in he's not sure how long.

At his questioning frown, Steve takes a moment before broaching, “You look different. And not just the hair.”

Bucky’s looking at him curiously, but doesn’t say anything.

“You just seem, I’m not sure. Not you,” he finishes rather lamely. The curiosity is growing in Bucky’s eyes, but Steve’s not sure he wants to mention the complete air of sadness that follows him every time he shifts, so he says instead, “Your arm. You’re holding it, differently, I guess, than you used to.”

Bucky stills, then sighs. “I guess that’s fair. Not all of me came home from the war, Stevie. Stark fixed me up good, that’s for sure, I just didn’t want to scare you. Thought you might be more comfortable if you woke up and things were normal, more what you were used to.”

Nothing about this is normal, he wants to point out, but Bucky is leaning forward again, bringing his left hand up so Steve stays silent, his own curiosity getting in the way. Bucky reaches forward and removes his glove, and for a brief moment Steve is scared _._ But the glove slides off before he can acknowledge it, or let Bucky see it.

Instead of flesh, he sees metal. It’s in the shape of a hand, and Bucky’s wiggling his fingers as if he’s reminding himself that he can. There are grooves, and plates, which run over each other, but that’s all the science and mechanics Steve knows, that was always Bucky’s interest.

He puts down his knife and fork, no longer caring about food, even though he was told he had an infinite supply of steak in front of him. He reaches out, but Bucky is hesitant, so Steve motions again, served with his best stern face. 

It’s slightly cold, almost the cold Steve himself is feeling, but he turns it over, inspecting it from different angles.

“How far up does it go?”

“All the way to the shoulder. Happened just after the train, mighta been when I fell, or when I landed, I don’t really remember.” It’s calm and controlled, but Steve can hear the distance in them, and is sure if he looked anywhere other than at what was in front of him, he would see a distance in Bucky's eyes and face too.

“Can you… Feel?” He asks, keeping his eyes down. He’s interested, for Bucky’s sake and the fact that he’s holding a _moving metal hand_ , but doesn’t want to offend or upset, or bring up something that Bucky might be missing. If it is Bucky.

“It’s different, not much but still enough, from my other arm. For the most part, hot, cold, pressure, movements, they’re as advanced as they can be. It’s as much a part of me nowadays as any other. I barely notice a difference, except under extreme circumstances.”

Nowadays. So he’s clearly had an adjustment period, long, as long as his hair, probably. Steve releases it, to finish off his meal in silence. Bucky looks away for the first time since any of the times he’s been awake, and stares at the door, arms crossed. When Steve sets the knives and forks down, Bucky looks back, and asks quietly, “Does it bother you?”

It’s an odd phrase from Bucky, definitely more suited for Not-quite-Bucky, but Steve answers the way he would the former. If he plays along, he gets answers, Steve understands. “It bothers me that you seem to be acting differently about it apparently for my sake, because you don’t think I can deal with it.”

“Alright then,” Bucky says simply, and he’s glad because there isn’t anything else to be said, and stands to remove the tray.

Steve can’t suppress the shiver that comes over him as he does so, and Bucky’s eyebrows quirk up. “I’ll get more blankets.”

Steve watches while he settles back down, as the door opens and there’s a man, in a black suit, who trades the tray for a pile of blankets. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of his face, nor any more of the hall beyond than he saw before, but under the promise of extra warmth and his now full belly, he’s almost content. He wants it so desperately to be true, that Bucky’s here, and he’s here, and the war is over, that he’s decided to accept it. For now, today only, he promises himself. With his needs taken care of, his mind may become clearer, his options of response obvious.

“Do you buff it up all shiny when you got someone to impress?” He asks when Bucky reaches the bed.

He’s rewarded with a thrown blanket to the face, but the words have made Bucky smile. Truly smile, almost, there’s still a trace of sadness to it, but it’s almost bright enough that it blinds Steve, distracts him from reacting when Bucky pulls them over him and tucks him in.

The blankets don’t quite rid the cold completely, but it is infinitely better than before, and the smile still hasn’t left Bucky’s face. That warms him more than anything, and before he can stop himself, he falls asleep again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I call you Stevie because when you died, America and the whole world mourned. Said how much they missed you, gone too soon, what a loss it was. Families in the street were crying, these people who didn't even know you, it wasn't fair, it wasn't-."

The next morning, Steve assumes it must be because it looks like Bucky’s changed clothes and shaved, he’s given his own time to wake up. Bucky’s reading beside him, and waits for Steve to sit upright before marking his page and handing Steve what smells like coffee. It’s not until he reaches forward before he realises there’s a small machine attached to his index finger, another by his wrist. He reaches up, there’s a small patch behind his ear, and when he focuses, he can feel the weight of one on his sternum. They seem harmless, but he pulls at them all the same.

“Relax, Stevie,” Bucky says, but makes no move to stop him. “They’re just to check your heart beat, breathing and your brain. I did them myself, I wanted to make them wait to check with you first but they said the sooner it got done, the quicker we can get out of here.”

 _Stevie,_ again.

He pulls the device off behind his ear, much to Bucky’s ill disguised annoyance. He stares at it a moment, turning it over. Bucky said it was for his brain, but surely that’s impossible. It’s too small, too, compact, how is it even seeing into his brain, for that to be true. Even for Stark. Who once said even that Hydra’s technology was far beyond his own, he realises with a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.

Steve saw well up into the skies before Schmidt disappeared, burning away, not two days ago. Who knows what else was possible. 

He stares at it a moment more, compiling it with his knowledge from before, attempting to decipher the meaning and its truth. 

Funnily enough, it's the heat of the room, that undoes him finally. He has no doubt it’s harmless, that Bucky saw him trembling in his sleep and tried to help, but it’s everywhere. It’s blowing in silently, from the roof, the walls, the floor, but it isn’t wind, nor is it laced with the smell of coal or oil.

He rips off the wrist and finger guards and stands up, pushing the coffee back, spilling onto Bucky.

The last two times he woke up, he was faced with uncertainty, with unease, which he could ignore at the sight of Not-quite-Bucky, but this, he cannot. He stands, towering over Bucky. 

“Where are we?" He demands.

Bucky seems wary, but makes no move other than to set the coffee down. "Washington." 

"Where are we really?" He demands again. He’s tired of being tired, of being toyed with lies and games, of being so cold. Mostly, he’s exhausted from being surrounded by the sadness in the air. He’s angrier than he’s ever felt, and it’s only that whoever is in here is wearing Bucky’s face that stops him from grabbing him, to shake the answers out when he takes his time to reply.

"The future Stevie, we made it. I just need you to trust me."

Steve walks towards the door and, apparently true to his word, Not-quite-Bucky doesn’t make a move to stop him. Hand on the doorknob, he looks back and says, "I don’t." 

Hurt flashes across Bucky's face, and Steve curses at his own reaction, because once again it’s just the right amount of familiarity to hold him still. "You said you do." 

This is his last chance. "The real Bucky wouldn't have to ask." 

"The real B-? Oh jeez, yeah, alright, I botched this. There wasn't really a right way to do it. Maybe there was, maybe they were right,” he mumbles, to himself, suddenly looking stricken. “Please just sit down, please calm down. Have some breakfast, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know."

Again, whoever it is has just the right amount of scrambling, of earnest and just shy of begging, asking Steve to stay in bed when he coughed too much, that he doesn’t make on his original plan to just leg it out to wherever, consequences be damned.

Steve moves back to the bed, but he doesn’t make himself comfortable, sitting as far away from the chair as possible. Bucky hands him back what’s left of the coffee, and snaps his fingers to the door, but makes no move to get up. A slight man with not a lot of hair in a plain black suit enters with a tray of breakfast foods. He sets down the tray on the bed between the two, and Steve catches an ear plug, two guns and the surety that the man knows how to use both the weapons and his body, if required.

“To share,” the man says sternly to Bucky, before turning to Steve. “Captain Rogers.”

Steve nods at him, he’s not quite sure what else to do.

“Thanks, Phil,” Bucky says quietly. They share a glance that Steve’s not sure he likes, because he doesn’t know what it means.

“I mean it. You need to eat, too. Captain Rogers, if you would be so kind as to assert some authority here, seeing as the rest of us are apparently useless in that department.”

“Yeah, yeah, go on, get out,” Bucky growls, but it's clearly fond.

Steve nods again. If he’s a prisoner, though he’s been assured he’s not, this is not the set up he’d imagined, not based on what he saw of Bucky strapped to a metal table. If both Bucky and him are prisoners, it’s an odd relationship he’s viewing, with its affection and steaks. Especially as this is the second time it’s come up, the eating, with the snort from before. 

Steve quickly decides to play along, because even if Not-quite-Bucky doesn’t explain, this man could be his new source of intel. 

So Steve gestures for him to start, raising an eyebrow at the scowl he receives. Bucky grabs a slice of toast, coffee in the other hand.

“Avoid the bananas,” Bucky suggests as he takes a small nibble, but Steve's not reaching for anything.

“What’s going on.” Steve demands. Bucky chews, for what Steve takes to be an unreasonable amount of time. “You said-,” no that wouldn’t do, not for Bucky if he _was_ Bucky. “You promised _._ ”

Bucky finishes his chewing, then takes a moment more. “You’ve been asleep, Stevie.”

“You’ve said that.”

Bucky sighs, then sets both items down. He’s preparing himself, Steve realises, so he prepares himself in turn.

“You’ve been asleep. For 66 years.”

“I,- what?” Is all he manages before the air is sucked from him. 

That.

Was not what he was expecting. 

At all.

“It’s 2011.”

“That’s impossible.”

“We thought so too,” Bucky's face is grim and his voice drops. “I’m sorry it took so long. We were trying, I swear. And once you’re better-”

“I’m not hurt,” Steve snaps, and Bucky’s face loses it’s calm, shattering into despondence.

“You drowned, Stevie. In water so cold it froze your lungs and stopped your heart and your brain.”

“That’s impossible," he says again, because it seems like the only word for it, even though Schmidt conjured up space right in front of his eyes and he'd believed that. "I would be dead.”

“I thought so too. I believed it, I saw it, saw you lying there frozen, but I watched the doctors melt the water away and saw your stubbornness do the rest.” Steve waits, slightly stunned, so Bucky continues. “They said you were- suspended, couldn't die even though you drowned, it was so close but the water froze you so cold you weren’t alive or dead, and then our medicine did the rest.”

Steve feels through his body, trying to feel for an ache in his lungs, a fog in his brain, the clenching of his heart. But there’s nothing. Nothing physical that screams of death, at least. Nothing except the watering of Not-quite-Bucky's eyes and the overwhelming sadness that's resurfaced. “You're lying, who are you?”

"I'm not, I-"

“I watched you fall!”

“I fell, but then I got back up. Just like you taught me,” Bucky all but pleads, and again, the desperation is enough to momentarily ground Steve. But not enough to break through the confusion.

“Who are you? Who are you really?”

“You know me, just look at me, you know me.”

“I’ve seen people wear other people’s faces. And I’ve seen them take them off, too.”

“I know, I know, Stevie, I was there. It was Krausberg, you stupidly stormed the whole thing by yourself and pulled me from a table, all but had a halo on you. Then Zola was there, and the devil himself, he brought hell with him and the whole place went up in flames. We spent the rest of what we knew of our lives trying to stop him, chasing the hell he was making. I know this, because I was there. You know I was. And now we’re both here, 66 years later.”

It’s convincing, it’s close, but it’s not enough. Zola was there for all of that, this could all be his doing. Or Schmidt, Schmidt disappeared into the skies but the plane was all over the place, he could have been upside down, descending into hell instead, and Steve's been dragged with him. 

Or worse, Steve’s own brain could be turning on him, making up this all in his head, strapped to a table like Bucky, stammering his service numbers. 

“Bucky never called me Stevie,” he tries, one last effort, because of everything, that’s what is bothering him the most in this situation.

And the grief that’s as much a part of Bucky’s aura, as his carefreeness used to be, finally floods through to all of his body at once like a burst damn. If Steve thought he saw sadness before, it was just an essence, a tiny drop. Bucky’s whole body slumps, his face falls, and he quickly hides it in both hands. His breath is wet, shaky, it’s not yet a sob, but he’s clearly drowning in something.

Now would be the perfect time to run, to get out, he’s clearly disabled his adversary. For some reason, Steve is drawn to him, no doubt the same way Bucky was drawn to Steve the first time he saw him, getting kicked down into the dirt. But in this case, it seems Bucky’s opponent is Steve himself.

Steve stands and walks forward, and places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. If what he's saying is true, he saved Steve from drowning, heated away the cold of death, and Steve wants nothing more than to do the same for him. 

It’s slight, but under the fabric he can feel where the metal of his new arm must meet skin, a thin layer of raised, possibly scarred, flesh, then the smooth of the arm. His own hand rises and falls with Bucky’s shoulders, but in time the motion eases. Bucky uncovers his face and reaches his right hand up to place it over Steve’s on his shoulder, the warmth is back. This time, it spreads a little further than just his hand.

When Bucky speaks, it’s controlled and aided by his blank gaze, staring forward and not at Steve.

“I call you Stevie because when you died, America and the whole world mourned. Said how much they missed you, gone too soon, what a loss it was. Families in the street were crying, these people who didn't even know you, it wasn't fair, it wasn't-. At first it was Captain America, but so quickly it turned to Steve Rogers. All these people who never knew you, wouldn’t have looked at you twice on the street before all that, were grieving you like you were all best pals. Like they knew you like I did. It wasn’t fair, and it was bleeding into what little I had left of you. They made museums out of you, what you did, but none of them knew that our apartment window latch used to stick, or how many times you broke your nose, or that you used to get your clothes stitched up by old lady Applegate next door until you learnt how yourself. That wasn’t the Steve they cared about, just the one who threw a shield and blew up Nazis. So I called you Stevie, I had to, I rewrote all my memories with it, just so it would be true. It was the last thing that was mine. _Mine_ ,” he rasps, and Steve wishes he hadn’t asked now, he could take back his words, because it’s raw, unfiltered and heartbreaking grief that consumes Bucky. He can hear it, he can see it, he can taste it and he can feel it because it’s the same grief he felt when Bucky- that he dealt with for-

Not for 66 years.

Steve’s pretty sure it would be enough to make him a shell of who he used to be, too.

Bucky turns his face up to look at him, his face unashamedly wet, and his whole body begins to heave again.

Steve thinks he finally understands.

Not about the future, not any of this or how it happened, but he understands this. This friendship, this bond, this loss. This is them. Steve and Bucky. 

Bucky is still looking at him, and through the tears he can see the fear. And he doesn’t know Bucky as well as he thinks, or maybe it has been that long, but he’s not sure if the fear is of Steve walking out that door, or something else.

Irregardless, Bucky shouldn’t have to be scared anymore. They’re not at war.

Steve also doesn’t want Bucky to be sad anymore. Or ever again. He knows what would help, what he could do. How he could hold him, the same way Winnie would to make him feel safe, and press his hands into his so Bucky would know that he’s here, he’s really _here,_ and Steve could understand the same.

But Bucky said they were being watched.

And somehow, after three days and 66 years, he just got Bucky back, and he’s not going to let them get separated again by a jail cell or worse. Because he knows how much more sadness and fear that would cause, to the both of them.

So instead, he squeezes gently on his shoulder, putting the words he can’t say into his hand. Bucky had always said his hands held all his spirit, his soul, so he does everything he can with them right now.

“Okay, Buck. I trust you.” And yet, Bucky doesn’t seem reassured, so he tries again. “It’s gonna be okay. Why don’t you tell me about the future?”

And Bucky takes a shaky breath, and nods.

Steve sits, and starts to eat some breakfast, but Bucky doesn’t tell him of the future, in fact, doesn’t speak at all.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Bucky says, almost as if to himself.

On any other day, Steve could punch him for the words. For now, he just nods.

He’s always put his faith in people, so he does, one last time. In Bucky. And Bucky’s never led him wrong. 

Bucky is always just right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil pauses, almost in regret, but says, “I'm guessing you don't like being fussed over?”
> 
> “Is it that obvious?” Steve grimaces, because he’s been trying to control that, for Bucky’s sake, who only seems to be appeased, calmer, less upset, when fretting over him. He gets a non committal face from Phil as an answer, and it’s all he needs. “Alright, I've definitely been called worse. And the favour?”
> 
> The agent’s smile turns sad. “Could you let him? It's been a long time. I think it will do him some good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but hopefully still sweet.

In the end, that’s all there is to it.

The minute he decides to trust Bucky, to simply accept what’s happened, the air in the room itself changes.

Bucky seems more himself, or perhaps those words are selfish, he’s more the Bucky that Steve knew 66 years, but also only a week ago - that’s going to get infuriating quickly for Steve. Bucky still whispers sadness, but it’s no longer a scream, as if the confession has loosed up everything else within him. He’s not happy, that’s not the word Steve would use, but perhaps just, fine.

Steve himself is less cautious of everything. He trusts Bucky, and apologised for saying he didn’t, and Bucky trusts the situation they’re in, so he does too without any more doubts. He’s also accepting that he might be confused about this whole future thing, and that somehow makes it less confusing.

Not that Bucky gives him much to be confused about.

He’s not said much more than two words about anything other than the book he’s reading, that Steve’s already read, or lunch, or dinner. When Steve tries to ask, he's met with hums and grunts and sorrowed looks. And while Steve’s slowly coming to terms that 66 years have passed without him, and that’s going to be a long conversation, that doesn’t mean he has to squash down his frustration at the conversation not being started at all.

“I told you, I was right. I said too much, and you freaked out,” Bucky sighs, running his hand through his long hair.

“Firstly, I did not freak out, and secondly, I freaked out because you weren’t telling me anything!”

It’s the beginning of an argument, a petty one that still Steve raises his pitch slightly for, but Bucky’s grinning a small devil all the same. Not in an egging kind of way, but more of a ‘I’ve missed this’ kind of way, Steve realises with his own slice of sadness.

“I just… The world’s weird, Stevie. You’re going to hate a lot of it. Things you couldn’t even dream of are a reality, and the reality we grew up in is laughable today. There’s machines and medicines and music that even I can’t wrap my head around, and I’ve been here the whole time. It’s not even that too. There aren’t many good people left, I know you'll hate that.”

“Well you’re here, that’s enough good for me.”

Another shadow crosses Bucky’s face, and the darkness scares Steve a little. He doesn’t know what it means, but he knows in his gut he doesn’t like it. Bucky can tell that Steve caught it too, and that he doesn’t like it himself, but like everything else so far, he’s cryptic in his answer.

“Not as good as you want me to be, Stevie.”

“Buck,” he starts, then pauses, and Bucky stills, like an animal caught by a predator. Steve freezes himself at the sight, hates it, never wants to hunt Bucky, but he wants to start living in this world, he needs to know what the world he is in. “What do you mean by that?” He tries, gently, reaching forward, jerking back when Bucky flinches.

The silence drags on, Bucky still frozen in his defense, but slowly unfurls when Steve makes no further moves.

And just as quickly as the demeanor comes, it’s gone.

“Nothing,” he says with a slight exhalation, letting go almost, a forced smile taking place. The caution is still there, and he's an odd shade of white.

Steve starts to open his mouth again, but there’s a knock at the door.

“White flag,” Phil, the man, perhaps Agent if he’s S.H.I.E.L.D, says, as he pops his head in. “Lunch time?”

Steve nods, because he’s never going to say no to food, he’s gone hungry too many times for that, and because right now he’s afraid Bucky might topple over if Steve even breathes an ounce of stubborn on the subject in his direction.

Phil turns to Bucky and says, “The Director would like to see you.” They both turn slightly, and he rushes to add, “Just travel arrangements, accommodation, logistics. Boring stuff,” he offers to Steve. “I’ll stay here, leave all that to Agent Barnes. Alright?”

And they eye each other, before Bucky gives a curt nod and heads to the door. “I’ll be right back, Stevie.” 

Steve misses his presence immediately and far too completely to even be annoyed at being babysat or interrupted. Phil takes the chair that Bucky only has occupied thus far, and it makes his heart ache a little to see someone else there. 

He distracts himself with the thought that nickname is bothering him less now, perhaps since he’s simply accepted anything. Or maybe it is that he agrees, and gets a little thrill that Bucky has such an open claim on him, that no one has burst into the room and tried to stop him.

Bucky is already a nickname, so he wonders how to reciprocate.

The thought doesn’t take up enough time, and the room is still, and silent, which only gets worse, when the man doesn’t move to say anything. Steve begins to eat, mostly to give himself something to do besides be awkward.

Until Phil does talk, and it’s so unexpected that Steve almost drops his water. It spills down his shirt a little, and together they stare at the growing patch a moment. Then, both simultaneous and identical, they grin, followed by a tentative chuckle at the other’s face. That seems to ease the tension slightly.

“Go ahead,” Steve says around his smile, attempting another drink.

“If I may be so bold as to say, sir?” Phil says, and he can hear the disguised timidness.

Steve himself has never been much of a people person, that was always Bucky carrying for the two of them, but he knows dry humour can sometimes do the trick. And also might get him answers. “Are you not allowed to talk to me?”

Phil starts a little, but Steve’s still wearing his smile. “No, it's more so that I don't know you and I'm about to pass judgement on your character. And then further request a favour.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. This man, had surprised him twice in a short time. Steve wonders if it’s a future thing. Instead, he says, “I like your honesty. I've been called a lot of things, mostly by Bucky, so whatever you have to say about me can't be too bad.” 

Phil pauses, almost in regret, but says, “I'm guessing you don't like being fussed over?”

“Is it that obvious?” Steve grimaces, because he’s been trying to control that, for Bucky’s sake, who only seems to be appeased, calmer, less upset, when fretting over him. He gets a non committal face from Phil as an answer, and it’s all he needs. “Alright, I've definitely been called worse. And the favour?”

The agent’s smile turns sad. “Could you let him? It's been a long time. I think it will do him some good.”

And here are the answers he wants, but has had to fight so far to get. But looking at Phil’s face, he’s suddenly not sure how much he wants them. He aims for middle ground. “He’s okay, though? Right?” He adds, when Phil just studies him.

He was never a good shot.

“Agent Barnes is a fine man,” Phil says suddenly formal, losing their teasing from before.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It is what I mean, though. He’s a great man, and he’s done great things. And I think having something to care for will only accentuate the qualities he already possesses and demonstrates.”

He ponders for a moment, ignoring what ‘something to care for’ insinuates, that it's a new concept, he’s never before cared. The silence is back as he formulates a response, but he’s still struggling minutes later when the door opens again.

It’s Bucky, and he offers Steve a genuine smile in response to his own face of unreserved relief. It was definitely approaching awkward again. 

“All sorted. We’ll leave when you’re done with lunch. Phil, you’re coming with us. Be nice, and Stevie might even sign some stuff for you. Notice you never ask me for stuff, mind you.”

“That’s because I’ve read your field reports. Or tried to, at least. Can’t read your writing, not even a signature. Wouldn’t get me a great price on eBay,” he says, then himself grimaces, as if the last word is taboo, whatever it means. “I’ll wait outside.” 

After he leaves, Steve asks, “Is he expecting me to weep over leaving this room? I mean, it’s been good not being dead and all, but is that what people think of me in the future?”

Bucky just exhales through his nose, a happy noise, Steve knows. He has another coffee in his hand, which he sips while Steve finishes eating.

“Where are we going?” He asks.

And though he’s not actually expecting a response, he gets one, and he gets the one he didn’t know he wanted.

“Home, Stevie. We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapters are longer, so think of it as a warm up?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between ‘the kids’ and ‘troubled teens’, it seems Bucky’s lived some sort of a life. But Steve can’t figure why doesn’t it look like it, not in his own home, and it’s almost as painful for Steve to draw out the answers as it is for Bucky to talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Home, Stevie (and Welcome to the 21st Century)!

The entrance to Steve's temporary room opens to a bare hallway. The windows are all blackened out, doors shut, and it’s not until he sees an agent open a door, double take at the sight and hasten back to wherever they came from that Steve accepts it's all for him. Bucky moves as if to grab his elbow, but thinks better of it and they keep walking until they reach an elevator. For some reason Steve assumed they were in a basement, possibly the lack of windows and overall feeling of suppression, but Phil presses for them to go lower. 

He leads them to a garage lined by an endless stretch of black cars, varying in size. The vehicles are certainly sleeker than the cars Steve knows, and when they pull out, Phil driving, smoother. The windows inside are darkened so much, whether intentional or not, that even Steve has difficulty seeing the outside world that’s spun on without him. 

There’s checkpoints as they leave, but they don’t tell Steve much.

Bucky himself seems unconcerned, but there’s a quietly contained energy that’s beginning to make Steve himself energised. He can’t be animated in such a small space, that will end badly, so he continues tentatively nudging, to see what he will get answers from.

He’s already figured that home doesn’t mean Brooklyn, not a cramped apartment, and it’s not going to be a hotel room between tours. The thought hurts a little, even though Steve’s not sure if he really believed Brooklyn would be home again, in the same way, the day he stepped on the USO tour.

“How long have you lived in Washington?”

That’s an easy one, that Bucky is willing to answer. He contemplates, “Early 1970's, probably?”

“Did you ever think of going back to New York?”

Bucky shrugs. “S.H.I.E.L.D wanted to keep an eye on me for a while when I came back to America, so I wasn’t allowed to leave, and when I started working for them it was easy to be based here, even though a lot of it is travel. And I think too much had changed, to try and fit myself back into Brooklyn like nothing happened, so I stayed.”

“What about your family?”

“I dunno. Ma and Pa got a M.I.A letter, had a funeral, got told it was wrong, then another a year later, another funeral, and there I was again. Two funerals, and the girls were so young, I think it messed them around a bit. Wasn’t particularly pleasant, for any of us, when they realised I wasn’t the same person who shipped off, and I know they didn’t really love the guy who came back like they did him. I reckon the funerals were fitting, so I mostly left them to their memories. Becca's never minded, and the girls came around to it in sorts, eventually, but Ma and Pa never did.”

Steve hopes that’s not true, that it’s some warped idea Bucky’s got in his head, that Winnie and George would be overjoyed to have Bucky back in any capacity, but for all he could pray it, it doesn’t matter. It’s already happened. 

Bucky seems to want to conclude on a better note. “There’s nothing there for me. Even now, I’m technically retired, just a few days or weeks here and there, I’ve never really considered it.” 

But Steve can’t think of that, he’s still stuck on Bucky’s family. His initial horror at the Barnes' reaction is replaced but a guilty and quiet agreement, that for all he’s glad to be with Bucky, though quintessentially Bucky, he is just a shade or two wrong that it keeps jarring Steve at times. He sits too straight, angles himself wrong, doesn’t smile as large as he can or should, and his eyes constantly dart, even now, in the car. The worst so far is that twitches every time they accidentally touch as though he’ll be reprimanded, and though Steve can feel Bucky's eyes on him at all times, whenever Steve tries to meet them, they lower, to his shoulder, or his shoes. 

Then, he wonders why and how Bucky is giving orders in this situation, when there’s a Director who might not be him, and Bucky says he's retired.

"So where'd you live between '45 and the 70's?"

Bucky shrugs, but it's tight, and so is his voice. "Around."

Steve stays silent the rest of the trip, home, wherever that is, in contemplation. It’s infuriating him to no end, not knowing, and Bucky not answering as thoroughly as he should, but his feelings of fear at several of Bucky’s reactions so far are inhibiting him from asking, from saying, the wrong thing. Bucky himself seems lost in thought, though looking at Steve and not forward, clasping his hands tightly in his lap as if he’s restraining himself. Steve ignores it, he’s not even sure Bucky has noticed it, until Phil asks, “Sir?”

“Hmmm? Oh yeah,” he looks forward as they turn into a short driveway. “You can park it in the garage, the bike shouldn’t be in the way,” and the garage door rolls up.

They drive in, parking next to Bucky’s own, larger, black car. The door rolls down again as Steve exits, but all he sees is pavement and bitumen before it closes. The garage is still lit from the inside, and it’s clean and well ordered. His lips move of their own accord at the sight of the motorcycle, it’s nice, he discretely hopes Bucky will share.

Phil and Bucky enter into a short hallway, which leads to a staircase in one direction and to what must be the front door in the other. The middle of the hall has no walls, instead it extends to a living area which would overlook the street if the curtains were raised. It’s set deeper, two steps lower, than the kitchen and dining area. There’s a large island situated almost in the middle of the kitchen, but the combined open area is still bigger than any apartment than Steve had ever lived in, or likely seen. And it’s Bucky, if a house ever could be cream walls, accented by dark brown mahogany kitchen cupboards and furniture. It definitely feels like the future, but he has a feeling Bucky may still be reserved in his choices.

“Tea, Phil? Coffee?” Bucky heads into the kitchen, but Phil shakes his head.

Steve stands still in the doorway, caught between the garage and the rest of the house, unsure of what to do next. In the end, he decides on inspecting the pile of goods just inside the door, which has also drawn Phil’s attention. 

“Tony,” Phil comments, and Bucky grunts in agreement as he hands Steve a coffee.

He feels marginally more comfortable with something in his hands, something to look at when he’s not sure where else to gaze, and it’s warm. He still can’t seem to shake the cold, and he's beginning to wonder if it's the ice or the future's doing.

Bucky picks up a few parcels and turns them over, exposing boxes of appliances underneath. Steve’s sure that Bucky would already have most of them, but they look familiar to Steve, so he has a suspicion that they’re for his reintegration process, something he’d heard from Phil and earned the agent a dirty look from Bucky.

“Huh, some of these might actually be handy,” Bucky mumbles to himself.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be outside if you need anything. Captain Rogers,” he nods, then steps outside.

“He’s staying?” Steve asks in surprise.

Bucky waves him off, taking a sip instead of answering. ”Come on, I’ll give you a tour,” and heads into the living room.

Steve’s second thought as he takes in the room again is that it’s bare. Their apartment in Brooklyn didn’t have much, but it wasn’t rare to find Bucky’s shoes or Steve’s sketches strewn in odd and annoying places. It’s not even the cleanliness that’s unsettling, it’s that it barely looks lived in. He also retracts his previous thought that it spoke of Bucky. There’s nothing to indicate that any version of Bucky, the one Steve knows, knew, or the modern day one, lives here. Although, there’s marks of scuff and dust where things have been moved recently, perhaps there are things Bucky doesn’t want him to see.

As if he reads Steve’s mind, he says, “What’s mine is yours,” and gestures to the space.

“Got something against walls?”

“Yeah, not big on them, actually. Spent some time in small places,” and Steve immediately wishes he could take his own words back.

Bucky seems less than perturbed, and continues on, “Kitchen, living, dining, those things haven’t changed, just got a bit more room to do it now.”

“It’s nice,” Steve adds, but Bucky just shrugs.

There’s a small door on the left just before the stairs that Bucky says with a quick open, leads to the laundry, then the backyard. 

They head up the stairs, the first room on the left opens to a guest bedroom. It's clean and bare, simple but again more spacious than Steve’s tiny room in Brooklyn. He somewhat assumes it's where he will stay, for the time being, but he rather hopes to not spend too much time in it, alone. Or maybe Bucky will let him personalise it a bit, as if Steve thinks that will help with what he's currently feeling.

The next door is a complete bathroom, and Steve is not surprised by now that it’s neat. He’d never known Bucky to be this clean, haphazard at best, but with each moment that passes, he’s painfully aware that he may not know Bucky anymore.

The final door on the left is a study, and it’s the most he’s seen any sort of glimpse into Bucky’s life or personality. If he thinks too hard, it would seem odd considering Bucky’s line of work and that he’s mostly retired now, but he’s too curious to dwell long on that.

But it’s not all a new Bucky, and Steve’s both relieved and a little saddened by it. On the large and rather impressive mahogany desk in the middle of the room is a photo of the Howling Commandos, Steve at the front. He remembers it, a sort of promotional thing that they all grumbled at, but the Army pushed at the height of Captain America, much to Phillip’s disgust. Hard to keep classified information that way when it’s posted in newspapers and shouted from radios.

Bucky’s eyes grow dark as Steve picks up the picture. “They all made it back, but dead by now. Age got to them, in one way or another. They had good lives though.” He reaches out again, as if to touch Steve, but seems to think better of it. He tucks his hands into his armpits instead, and Steve ignores it, like he has all the other times. 

He nods, and looks back at it once more. It only feels like a few days since he saw them last, and for him he supposed it really is, so he takes time to say goodbye to each in the photo.

Steve sets it down and looks over the rest of the desk. Folded papers sit in a small black wire basket, a craft bouquet of purple paper flowers that looks like it's made by a child beside it, along with a letter in Cyrillic. There’s a smaller photo of Peggy, he realises with a jolt of shock, a little older, but still beautiful and somehow fierce. In front, large, velvet lined cases of pens that look like they cost three times as much money as Steve had ever had in his life. Each. 

Bucky shrugs as Steve’s fingers brush over the pens. “Present. Tony says if I’m still going to write things out by hand, it might as well be by a nice pen.”

Tony, again. In his house, twice. So Tony is important to Bucky. There’s at least one person. And Peggy. 

And Steve can’t see a typewriter, so the pens make sense.

He turns to inspect the rest of the room. The desk faces a large window, most of the wall, with blinds rolled down, but the position of the house so far and Bucky’s previous comments lead him to believe it looks out to the backyard. “There’s a lake, actually,” Bucky says but makes no move to roll it up to show. “It’s part of a reserve and leads into a forest area, people jog it, but it’s nice to look at while you work, rather than into someone else’s house, or an alley, or street.”

Steve offers a wry smile, thinking of the days they’d waste on the fire escape before the war, just watching the world pass by.

He moves to the adjoining wall, which is entirely a bookcase. His eyes travel the top few shelves, but they look to be in Spanish, or French, or German.

Steve pulls a book at random, not entirely random as he skips the ones with World War on the spines. _In Search of Memory; The Emergence of a New Science of Mind_ , by _Eric R Kandel._ On the inside is another note, again in Cyrillic.

“Jesus, Buck. How many languages can you speak?”

“I dunno, actually. Usually find out if I can or not after I’ve already started speaking it,” but then makes a face of barely contained regret. “I’ve had a lot of time to learn, and it comes in handy with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"What can you speak?"

"What?"

"What languages can you speak? I remember trying French, but we butchered the accent so bad I'm sure what Dernier said was a threat to blow us up."

Bucky shrugs again, it's stiff. "Yeah, French. Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch, they're all fairly similar so it’s kind of like once you know one, you’ve got a head start on the others. Russian, easy, it’s a bit like French, but the alphabet is different if you want to be able to read or write. Romanian, too, but it’s essentially a bit of a mixture between Spanish, Russian and Portuguese, if you’re coming from English, so there’s that.”

That's nine, including English. That he’s saying. Steve wants to press, but it was hard enough for Bucky to answers that simple question, so just nods instead.

He places the book back. There’s a few neuroscience books, some textbooks which seem to be about physiology of various body parts and the body as a whole, some more about World War I, II and some wars he’s not heard about, though he’s grateful there’s not any on a World War III. He skims over one about parenting of troubled teens, and another about grief. Once Steve gets to the books on motorbikes and mechanics, it dawns on him this might be boring for Bucky, but when he looks up, Bucky’s face is not impatient, just fond, his hands now twitching under his armpits. Steve turns back, and his eye catches on a small, familiar logo. 

He quirks up an eyebrow at Bucky, who’s unabashed, almost defiant. “It’s the most accurate. They actually wrote you right, made you the exact amount of annoying. Plus, it’s got copies of letters from Dum Dum and Jim about our days, stuff I’d forgotten. They’re nice to read, sometimes, with a glass of whiskey.”

Steve doesn’t need to read it, not today, maybe not ever. He agrees though, letters from his men, no, his brothers, could settle him if, and more likely, when, he needs. As they leave the room, Bucky adds. “I’ve got few comics too, mostly for the kids. There’s some of the originals, but they still print new stories even now, they’re not bad.”

Between ‘the kids’ and ‘troubled teens’, it seems Bucky’s lived some sort of a life. But Steve can’t figure why doesn’t it look like it, not in his own home, and it’s almost as painful for Steve to draw out the answers as it is for Bucky to talk about it. 

He briefly wonders about the photo of Peggy, the only photo in the home so far besides the Commandos, but pushes it away. Bucky would have told him by now if they were, if he and Peggy-, if that was the case, no matter how he thought Steve would react.

The other side of the hall is entirely Bucky’s room and en-suite. Although it takes up the space of two rooms and bathroom, perhaps it looks even larger because it’s so empty, except for a large bed adorned by two bedside tables, both with lamps. There’s a reading chair and a small table, angled to look out a window that takes up almost the whole wall, not dissimilar to the study’s. The closet is an inset in the wall next to the bathroom, and there’s no door, nor one leading to the en-suite.

Maybe this is what bedrooms look like nowadays, but he thinks of Bucky's comment about small spaces, and of how he found the prisoners in Krausberg. Maybe not.

Small spaces seems like an inaccurate word for it.

They leave, there’s nothing much to say, and Steve doesn’t mention the photo of him and Bucky on the bedside table. He doesn’t need to get closer to see that it’s Bucky, mid belly laugh, and Steve’s head ducked in quiet satisfaction at making him laugh so hard. Another promotional moment, but with just the two of them, it was fun. He’s glad it was captured, though he’s sure he remembers it being for a show reel, not a picture.

Bucky explains that there’s one more room, under part of his bedroom, a sort of rumpus room, extra space for the kids, or Tony, or whoever claims it. Steve wonders if Bucky’s hesitant to show him it because it means going outside, through the laundry.

They head back downstairs, Bucky gesturing to sit at the island as he starts dinner. Steve almost offers to help, but Bucky glares him down before he can actually do so. 

Steve stares a moment too long at the amount of food in the fridge, most of which he doesn't recognise, but thinks maybe that’s normal too. Instead he takes to memorising the area, because Bucky doesn’t seem to want to offer any more conversation, and Steve's too exhausted from the little he's learnt to try and ask. In the end, his eyes are always drawn back to Bucky so he gives up, accepting to just watch. Appreciating that Bucky’s still alive. And somehow here.

There’s a shadow of movement behind a closed blind, but Bucky doesn’t seem wary. Or more wary, than he is, always.

Bucky serves up dinner and moves them to the table. It’s steak again, Steve understands that it’s going to be steak for a while, but he couldn’t be happier. Well, except for- 

“How many agents are there out there?” 

“Four,” Bucky says, pushing his food around, but doesn’t explain.

“And they’re meant to help me not feel like a prisoner?”

Bucky huffs. “I told you, they're for your protection, not your detainment.”

“Who do I need protecting from?" Silence. "I died ages ago, surely everyone who wants to kill me is dead or too old by now.” Bucky huffs again, but Steve can’t stop. “How is that making you mad?”

“I've already told you all this.”

“When?” Steve asks, genuinely unsure, but Bucky’s annoyed so in a lifelong habit of retaliation, he raises his defense.

“When I first found you in the ice. I told you everything, it was so long and boring that Tasha fell asleep,” he winces. Tasha, there’s another name, and one that makes him grimace. “And then at the end I mentioned something about how you never listen,” but it’s less frustrated, as if he realises he’s being unreasonable.

So Steve plays along, and digs for his best sarcasm. “Yeah, well maybe it was so long and boring that I also fell asleep. Or had water in my ears,” and by the end he’s grinning, hoping they can joke about his ‘death’ so soon. Because so far, Bucky keeps looking at him when he doesn’t think Steve can see with his sad eyes, and there’s been five moments since they’ve been home, more in the first room at S.H.I.E.L.D, where he’s pulled back his hands reaching for Steve. There’s something else in the look that he still can’t quite put his finger on, too.

It works, and Bucky half grins back. “Maybe. That, and you’re damn thick.” He takes his first bite, though Steve’s almost finished his own dinner, chews for a long moment, then says seriously, ”Not too convinced that no one shady isn’t gonna come looking for you once they hear you’re out. There's lots of small groups, out there, mostly remnants now, KKK, Neo Nazis, people like that, that could do some damage.”

“Intelligence agencies?”

Bucky snorts. “No, they’re idiots with their own agendas. But that's what makes them dangerous.” It does some to appease Steve, even when Bucky adds, “That, and some people are downright invasive these days.”

“What do you mean?”

“You kinda never really went away, Stevie, and if anything, people only grew more attached the longer you were dead. Captain America is big, like dress up for Halloween, comic books, lunch boxes and bed sheets kind of big. It’s going to be a bit of a hoo-hah when the public finds out you’re still kicking. They’ll want you to say something, probably want Cap back, and your whole life will be turned out for everyone else to own, even further, if that’s possible. They treat people like you like animals, it’s disgusting. S.H.I.E.L.D can help with PR management but I just don’t really want to deal with that yet. I just want to spend time with you, get you settled in a bit before it all blows up. So you’re welcome to walk out that door, you’re not my prisoner, but just know that the moment you do, you might not get to be yourself.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Buck,” Steve says gently, because it seems to be a genuine fear, and he’s not relaxing. “I just like to know what’s going on. And I don’t need to be coddled in the process,” he adds, for good measure. Phil can be damned, if Bucky gets a taste of being a caretaker, Steve will never escape it for what might be an unnaturally long life, by the still young looks of Bucky. 

“I know you think I’m doing this wrong, and honestly, maybe I am. I have no idea what I’m doing, Stevie,” he admits quietly.

“Me either, but I trust you. We just gotta figure it out together, I guess.” And for all Bucky seems afraid that Steve’s going to walk away, there’s something in the back of his mind that tells him that Bucky himself could let him go, get him to stay somewhere else, alone.

Bucky nods, but he still seems tense. “I told you, the world’s gone weird. I’m not sure you’ll like it. That’s why I’m trying to go slow.”

They clean up the dishes, which means throwing out most of Bucky's dinner, mostly in silence and Steve’s trying hard to ignore the increasingly frequent looks Bucky is giving him, more so since their talk. And it’s not easy to escape them, especially since doing the dishes, in this age, mostly means placing them into a sleek dishwashing machine in the counter and letting it do all the work.

Some things, like the fry pan, still need to be washed by hand, so Steve cleans it because it’s something Bucky clearly trusts him with, and it means he can turn his back to Bucky, who’s leaning against the island. He can still feel it though, and for all it’s warming his back and flushing his neck, it's the result of something that could be not right.

“Buck,” he sighs.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t sound or look apologetic when Steve turns. “It’s just weird, seeing you here. I just feel like at any moment I’m gonna wake up, or you’re gonna disappear, or something.”

That bit, Steve actually does understand, so he dries his hands. “C’mere,” he mumbles, and pulls Bucky into him.

It might have technically been 66 years since he’s last hugged Bucky, but his body still remembers. It had to adapt, sure, with an extra 10 inches and 145 pounds, but they still made it work after a close call in Europe or wordlessly after one of Bucky's nightmares. It seems Bucky hasn’t forgotten either, although for him it actually has been that length of time. 

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles again into his chest, as his hands grip tighter instinctively around Steve’s lower back when Steve tries to pull away after what he thinks is an appropriate amount of time.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Buck,” he sighs as he brings his hands back, rubbing in what he hopes is a soothing motion. He’s not had much practice at this, and he’s not entirely sure how much practice Bucky’s had at receiving it. Dames, he knew about for sure, after dancing and more, but actual comfort? There might be standards, or differences after 66 years, and Bucky might not let him do this again if he doesn’t meet them. And god he wants to hold Bucky as much as he’s allowed.

“Then why are you so tense about it.” This time it’s a grumble, but Bucky still makes no effort to move.

He’s painfully aware that although all the blinds are closed, Bucky said there are four agents outside. And they’re possibly being watched from the inside, if the room he just came from is any indication. Steve has been careful his whole life, so careful he didn’t even think Bucky could tell, and he doesn’t want to do anything these days that could be misconstrued for Bucky’s sake. Bucky, who’s got a job, a house, and a Tasha and a Tony. There are kids involved too, maybe. Any one of those reasons alone is enough to pull away.

A smaller, almost nonexistent and selfish part wants to be careful too for his own sake, because he’s not exactly sure the type of world he’d be cast out into.

But Bucky doesn’t seem to share his fears, or maybe he’s so well respected that he doesn’t care, or maybe he doesn’t think of it as being _careful_ , because to Bucky, Steve is just a friend. 

All in all, Steve fundamentally means it. He trusts Bucky, and if he thinks it’s okay, then it’s okay. It’s more than okay, but Steve pushes that down. It’s just okay. 

So he tries to breath out all the tension in one exhale of his own, “Sorry.”

It mollifies Bucky, and they stand there, Steve resting his chin on Bucky’s head, trying to learn the new smell, the new breaths, and care and strength he can feel in the metal arm, until Bucky decides he’s had enough. 

“I’m pretty beat,” Bucky says around a yawn. “I’m gonna take a shower and hit the sack.”

That sounds like the second best thing the future could give him, the first being Bucky, so Steve ends up doing the same in the guest amenities. He decides he could live in Bucky’s shower forever, and gets lost in the soaps and shampoos. The hot water ebbs the cold too, momentarily.

“You haven’t had a shower since ‘45,” Bucky jokes as he finds Steve sitting on the end of the guest room bed, towel drying his hair. He’s in the too short sweatpants he’d been lent, and a simple long length cotton top.

“Hardy har har,” Steve says dryly.

“Actually, that’s not entirely true. You got sponged down between the ice and waking up. Don’t worry, she was very pretty,” he winks, laughing a little, but it's still not as free as Steve wants it.

Steve flushes a little, aware that it’s actually not a joke. “What’s that?” He nods to the small box in Bucky’s hand.

“I- They had a museum display for, uh, Captain America. I know,” he says quickly. “I told you, you might not like everything about this world. But they let me keep some of your stuff they didn’t think would impress anyone, so if you want it back...”

He hands it over, and it’s not heavy. When he opens it up, Bucky’s right, it’s not much. Things that wouldn’t mean anything to one, except him or Bucky. There’s a tie, possibly the only one Steve ever owned, a comb, asthma cigarettes, a card from someone named Maisie thanking him for walking her home, and a sketchbook. It must have been one of the first one he ever owned, because they’re not good, borderline bad. A few oily thumbprints ruin the pages, and the spine has cracks, as if it’s been opened a few times before. More than a few times.

“What do you mean, let you?” He’s annoyed at the words, and he’s not sure why.

“I told you, America thinks they own you.” 

Steve looks back to the sketchbook, and it registers now that he’s holding the only thing left in the world that’s actually his. 

Besides from Bucky, but he thinks of the disdain he’s let show for America and Steve, and agrees. You can’t own someone. As much as he wants to think he owns Bucky.

“Thanks, Buck,” he says, and he means it.

Bucky makes a move to stand, and Steve shivers. His brain knows it’s not that cold in the house, and the shower did wonders, but it’s still an ever present feeling he can't ignore.

“Yeah, I thought so. I reckon you’ll feel cold for a while, maybe even until things start to make sense.” He pauses, and looks down to the sketchbook himself. “You can bunk in with me, if you want. I remember the cold through to my bones with the Commandos and body heat seemed to do the trick.”

Again, Bucky doesn’t seem concerned about being watched, or wrong ideas, but it’s still Steve’s first instinct to hesitate.

“You don’t have to, I can just turn the heating up,” Bucky says after a beat.

“Nah, I was just wondering if they cured snoring in the future,” he says, and brushes past Bucky, not meeting his eyes. He’s not spent more than a shower length, or the lunch with Phil, away from Bucky since he’s woken up. He doesn’t doubt by the harsh circles under Bucky’s eyes that he was there even when Steve was sleeping, but Steve finds he doesn’t want to be away from him. He thinks of the feeling of the house, of Bucky’s constantly contained gloom, and imagines that the future could get awfully lonely, fast.

Bucky pushes him lightly into the room in retaliation. Steve stands, a bit lost, but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. He walks into the closet, there’s a set of drawers, and some shelving along one side, and throws a pair of fluffy socks to Steve before striding to the bed, pulling the covers down and sliding his legs under. Bucky looks so young, so young and tired and still so sad, when he looks at Steve with wide eyes, covers up all the way to his chin.

“No thanks,” Steve says. “I know what your feet smell like.”

“Wow, you’re still a punk. Nowadays, people wash their clothes each time they wear them, so those should be good, thank you very much.”

“Seems wasteful, and excessive,” Steve says, but on the other hand, spending weeks cramped up with six other grown men with no changes of clothes, maybe not. 

“Yeah, a bit. They’re real good about other sustainability and earth matters in other ways though. There’s protests and stuff, you might like that part, actually.”

“Huh,” Steve says as he slides himself into Bucky’s bed, socks on. It’s not the only thing he thinks he might like, though he keeps to his side and Bucky does the same. Bucky turns the lamps off, and they fall into silence.

There’s too much wrong for Steve to fall asleep straight away. Since the serum, he didn’t need much more than four or five hours to feel alright, that part was useful, but now he wonders if he’ll even get that. Maybe he slept too long at S.H.I.E.L.D, but more so he thinks Bucky’s bed is too soft, Steve's stomach too full, and the idea that all is expected of him tomorrow is to wake up and be himself. That, and the quietude.

The still of the night is a different sort than the day, and now there’s nothing to learn about to keep him distracted. He never figured out what he liked better, the lack of noise that came with fear of approaching soldiers, where he would lie awake worrying that he was doing wrong, he would get someone killed, and in those nights he could hear Bucky shifting and whimpering when the nightmares came. His only other option was air raid sirens, and gun fire, and screaming, but at least then he was on a sort of autopilot, no time to think.

At least in this silence, his thoughts are as loud as ever, and it’s a small comfort that at least if everything else has changed, that part hasn’t. And so far Bucky’s not showing any signs of fussing, but Steve didn’t actually realise he was still awake too.

"Stevie? You're alright though, hey?"

It's not a voice he's heard much from Bucky, and he doesn't like it, so he lies, "Yeah. And you can stop asking every five seconds," he adds, because it's going to wear him down if he has to hear it often, and then he might very visibly not be alright. He wants to ask Bucky the same, and is not quite sure why he doesn’t.

"You'd tell me if you weren't, right?"

"Course I would," it comes out gruffly. 

“Well, then, night.”

“Night, Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is my favourite, if I do say so myself :3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's gaze towards Steve is a little timid the rest of the day, almost afraid, but Steve said he would let Bucky know if he wasn’t okay, so Steve isn't entirely convinced it's not something else he can't put his finger on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently re-reading my other works I’m mostly into angsty, sad fics, but this domestic stuff (dare I say fluff?)? Oh. My. God. This was so fun to write, and I (even) love rereading it because this is the sort of content I WANT TO WATCH! I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR STONES AND MISSIONS, JUST GIVE ME DAILY LIFE. And like, all we got of Steve settling in to the 21st Century was a deleted scene?? It’s so important.  
> But mostly fun! Maybe I’ll continue like this, who knows.  
> (Also this is as funny as I get.)

Bucky is tired, that much is clear even from a glance while he's trying to sleep away the exhaustion, and Steve is glad that he kips late. But having woken at dawn himself, it gets to a point where Steve can’t handle staying still, so he gets out of bed, quietly as to not disturb. The clock says 9:30am in glowing numbers, and Steve baulks.

He pads downstairs, and not wanting to scare or break Bucky’s trust by searching outside, he instead goes to a sideboard in the lounge room he didn’t inspect the night before, a small bookcase affixed to the top. There are pictures, he just didn’t notice before. No more of Peggy, but there’s another picture of him, that he has to take a second glance at, because he doesn’t think of himself like that anymore. It’s from before the serum, it must have been Camp Lehigh, because he’s wearing a plain white army issued shirt, and dog tags hanging over top. There’s two more photos, one of Bucky with a small child, it’s possible it’s not recent based on the length of his hair, then a graphite drawing of Bucky’s parents that’s been framed. There’s more marks, where Steve can clearly see things have been moved in preparation for him coming here- home, he thinks. In the bookcase, his eyes are drawn to a scrapbook, and when he angles it out slightly it looks like it’s been done by a child, with the same amount of finesse as the flower in Bucky’s study. Maybe it’s the child in the photo, Bucky mentioned kids, but he couldn’t be sure. He slides it back in quickly when he hears the stairs groan slightly. 

“You could have woken me,” Bucky yawns with his palm pressed into his eye, rubbing, as his foot leaves the last step. Then, his eyes widen and the sleep is instantly gone, “Good lord.”

Steve comes to inspect the revelation. The amount of packages accumulating in the hallway seemed to double overnight, flowing almost into the living room, too many to ignore now.

“Coffee first, then we can deal with that.”

He lets Bucky make the coffee, because for some reason it seems complicated and again extravagant. But he likes it, he decides, though sweeter than he knows it to be and a lot more milk, and it makes his stomach growl so Bucky puts on some toast. He doesn’t eat, just hands it over to Steve, shaking his head at Steve’s frown.

“Breakfast and I aren’t friends,” he says with a finality that Steve doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either.

Bucky makes a second cup of coffee for the both of them, looking slightly grim, before they head back to the mountain of mess. 

“Yup, Tony,” he confirms, after he hands one over. “He’s a good guy to have on your side. He likes to give, ridiculously so, and doesn’t ask for anything in return, even if he hates your guts and has stayed up for 50 hours straight to get it done.”

He still doesn’t know who Tony is, but Bucky is talking freely, without prompting, so that’s something. The sleep did him wonders, even if he still looks drained. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is, a bit. But it settles, it’s a kind of comforting, and he actually doesn’t mind if you ignore him or tune him out from time to time.”

“So what does he get from it?”

“Actually, he gets embarrassed if you make a big deal of it, and he’ll never admit it, but honestly I think it’s the quiet, little moments of gratitude, inside jokes kind of things, that makes him feel like a part of the family, that he lives for.”

Bucky ponders for a moment, his face growing fond. It looks good on him, better than the weariness it temporarily replaces, but for all that he likes it, it doesn’t help Steve.

“And Tony is who, exactly?” He asks.

Bucky looks at him, eyes and mouth comically wide. “Jesus, good god, I’m sorry. Tony is Howard’s son. Howard Stark.”

That both does, and doesn’t make sense.

“Can't believe he had a kid," and Bucky snorts. "You sound close,” Steve adds, and they start to move them all into the lounge area.

“Well I had a lot to do with Howard, through S.H.I.E.L.D, and he was mostly in charge of your technically inactive file that somehow never closed. But a few years after I got back it seemed like he began to focus on weapons themselves, not even to help, it was more that he was pushing himself to see how much destruction he could cause, how smart he could be. I don’t know, morally, I know I did some shit in the war, and after, and S.H.I.E.L.D isn’t always much better, but it just didn’t sit right with me. Seemed like too many lines were blurred. Hit a little too hard with what had just happened, so S.H.I.E.L.D kept us apart after that. They thought I was unstable or something. I wasn’t, just didn’t like it, and knew a lot of people would be worse off for it. And I was at least remorseful about what I did, but Howard just saw it all as war and winning. Even so, the thing that really got to me was how much time it took up. He tried when Tony was first born, to have some sort of balance, but as he got older, he wasn’t really there for Tony. Not even really, just at all. So I did what I could, which was hard when you can’t help with his maths homework after age three, and couldn’t build robots with a five year old because even though he’s speaking English it didn’t make sense. But I think he was just lonely, he didn’t have too many friends because he was just too far beyond the kids his age. He just craved company that wasn’t his butler or his nanny. So I just did the mundane stuff I remembered, that I missed of my Pa, ball games and bad cooking and graduations.”

His face grows dark as he speaks. “Besides, Howard, as he got older, well… He,” and Bucky struggles, “Well I don’t doubt that he loved Tony, but he wasn’t the best at showing him. And I definitely saw him be downright mean to him at points.”

They’ve finished shifting parcels by now, so Bucky takes a seat on the couch. Steve, wanting to keep his whole body faced toward Bucky and not side by side on the couch even if it means proximity, sits opposite him, a coffee table between them. Bucky continues.

“Then when Howard and Maria died, god that was 20 years ago, Tony was still so young, but he’d also been so mature for so long already. He was always going to do whatever he wanted. I didn’t want to step in as any sort of father figure, but I just wanted him to know he’d have somewhere to go if he got himself into any sort of trouble. He did, so much of it, all sorts, but he always managed to get himself out, by himself. But every now and then I’d come home and he’d be half moved in here, making a mess by taking all my stuff apart to put it all back together, but he was still here, so I guess that’s what really mattered.” 

Bucky goes silent again, but then adds, “He makes me a new arm, whenever the urge hits him. The first one- well, yeah. But Tony seems to care. That, or it gives him something to do a few hours.” He turns over in front of his face, flexing the fingers, and gets lost for a moment.

“What does he do when he’s not going to ball games with you?” Steve tries, desperate to hear Bucky’s voice, to keep learning about Bucky’s life, of anything about anything.

“Took over Stark Industries, but he got kidnapped, an assassination attempt they reneged on. That in itself was bad enough, but then he found out his business partner was trading behind his back on the black market, and he was the one who ordered the hit. Shook Tony hard, his partner Stane was kinda like an uncle too. I never really trusted him, but it was messy and Tony’s conscious tortured him with every wrong doing **,** so he pulled Stark Industries out of weapons. His other half is in charge and it’s now focused on renewable energies, research and whatever else takes his fancy on any given day. I don’t know how much he’s actually still involved because he seems to spend all his time flying around and does a bit for S.H.I.E.L.D, but I’m not convinced he actually sleeps, so who knows. He’s got a wicked sense of humour, won’t treat you less than anything you are or thinks you can handle, but he makes a lot of jokes you’re not going to understand. I don’t even understand them even though there’s not much of his life that I’m not a part of.” 

They stare towards the pile, and the sheer amount of stuff is almost overwhelming.

“He’s filthy rich, if you hadn’t noticed. Got half of some from the company, worked hard for the rest. It’s uncomfortable, but you pick your battles with him. Speaking of which, you better start on these, I think they're clothes and whatnot, lest he show up on our doorstep any minute.”

“Would that be a bad thing?” Steve asks, because he’s not entirely sure from that review. He’ll sort through that information later and decide.

“That’s a headache you don’t need just yet.” 

“It still seems excessive,” he repeats, being his new favourite word.

“It is, but it’s Tony. He’ll have one of everything for you to decide what you like, and when you do he’ll get one in every colour.”

“That’s definitely too much. What happened to just a shirt and pants?”

Bucky shrugs. “Self expression is a big thing now. People like to show who they are from a mile away, without having to open their mouth. And there’s a bigger gap between formal and casual, and in between.” Steve must still look reproachful because he adds, “He’s just trying to help. You can’t wear my clothes forever, they’ll fall down at the waist, thought that might at least cover your ankles. Just try a few on, we’ll send him pictures, and then we’re done with it. Come on, it’ll be fun, like Christmas. Tony’s sure to have thrown in a few costumes.”

It is like Christmas, looking at the parcels. If every present he and Bucky got for Christmas in their entire life was combined, then doubled. He’s suddenly onboard with Bucky’s concept of immersing himself slowly. Even this simple act of clothes sounds more complicated than Steve could ever imagine. 

“I suppose I should make sure they’ll fit,” he concedes.

“Oh, they’ll fit. Tony’s got a good eye, he would have sized you up when you were sleeping. Sorry,” he grimaces when Steve twitches, “but he was mostly responsible for you not dying when defrosting, so then again, maybe not sorry.” 

Bucky feels through a few, sorting them into piles, and tosses a soft one to Steve. “Try this,” he says, and continues to sort.

Steve opens it slowly and carefully, and if it frustrates Bucky, he doesn’t show it. More likely he understands, presents might be common in the future, but for Steve and the Bucky he knew just a week ago in his own time, it was something rare enough to savor.

Just to make sure, Steve comments, “It’s like the world is making up for 66 missed birthdays and Christmases.” 

Bucky’s face falls a little, unexpectedly, but in laughable fear, and not anything else. “Don’t say anything like that around Tony unless you want a repeat. He will actually get you enough to compensate.”

The package turns out to be just socks, but Steve takes them out and inspects them individually regardless. They’re all different lengths, and materials, and when he shakes out the last a slip of paper falls out too, describing the apparent intended wear based on their design. He’ll read it later- socks are socks. Which is to say, socks are like gold, after the war.

“Is he this generous to everyone?” Steve asks mildly as he opens the next package Bucky hands him. It’s shorts, though the note says boxers, and briefs. 

“Yes and no. He’s got a big heart, that’s for sure, and only recently he’s gotten better at expressing it in ways that aren’t materialistic. A combination of his lady, and the kidnapping, I think. But this bit, maybe part of this is for me, but I think mostly that between American history, and Howard and I, Tony grew up feeling like he knew you. So this is what he’s like to a friend.”

Steve becomes intent on opening the next package, ducking his head so Bucky can’t see his face. He thinks through the traces of himself he’s already found in Bucky’s house, and the idea that he’s been talked about so frequently that a stranger could call him a friend, and the pure, earth shattering grief he felt when Bucky fell.

Luckily, his face changes quickly, caught between shock and horror as the clothes fall out. Bucky barks out a laugh, and orders, “Try them on.”

“I don’t need to. I’m not wearing that,” Steve scowls. He’ll hide in Bucky’s bed clothes for the rest of his life if this is what people wear in the future.

“I told you, Tony appreciates the little things. Go put it on so I can send him a picture, then we can burn it, or use it as rags, or give it to Goodwill. Whatever you want, Stevie.”

Steve scowls again, but trudges up stairs. 

He hates it.

But he doesn’t hate the genuine and deep laugh Bucky gives when he walks into the living room in ripped black denim, tight to his ankles, a black shirt that simultaneously has roses and skulls on it, covered by a leather jacket which has both _spikes_ and _safety pins_ , neither which look like they can be used for weapons.

It takes Bucky a moment to compose himself, before he pulls out a small, black rectangular object and holds it up and says, “Smile.”

Steve scowls, though he has no idea what it is.

Bucky laughs again, and pats the couch beside him. Steve goes, slow, he can barely walk in these, and he’s worried they’ll split if he bends even a little. He’d even had to wear the briefs, because there was no way the shorts, no, boxers, were fitting underneath without the whole world noticing them bunching up. 

“This is what a phone looks like these days,” and Steve baulks for the second time that day. “I know. They don’t just call, either. Anything you think of, they can do, especially the ones Tony has a hand in designing. I’ll send him that picture, and a text, which I guess you might think is like a telegram.”

Steve watches as the screen changes, flashing, before the picture of him appears. It’s hideous. Bucky presses with only his thumb and words appear, ‘Steve says no’, then grins at him.

“How long will it take?” Steve asks, but words appear before he’s even finished asking.

‘Obviously, it looks ridiculous with socks. Try it again with the high boots.’ Is the reply, which makes Bucky chuckle again.

He stays next to Bucky and opens up a few more that he’s handed, clothes that Bucky, and the note inside, says are specifically for exercising, then jumpers and ‘hoodies’ and sweatpants that he’s not forced to try on. They’re what Bucky is wearing now, and they look comfortable. And warm. 

Steve picks his own package next, desperate to get out of this ridiculous get up, which is what he should have done from the start. It’s long dress pants and a few button up shirts. The pants are a different material and neutral, but they’re closer to what he’d normally wear than anything else so far so he bounds up to change. He tries on all the shirts, they fit, which annoys him for some reason, and goes to Bucky and says firmly, ”This.”

Bucky scrunches his nose. “You look like a grandpa.”

“I’m old enough to be one, I think. I like this,” he insists again.

“Alright,” Bucky says, but he’s still looking slightly disgruntled. He pulls up the phone again, and Steve is both ready this time and aware that a smile should show Tony that he wants more of these, so he flashes his teeth. Bucky’s quiet as he types, and as quick as the before, Tony replies. “He says ‘yawn’,” Bucky informs him.

“Why put them in if he doesn’t like them!” Steve cries.

“Because he knew you would like them,” but Bucky looks him up and down once, still clearly unhappy.

“Well, what do you like to wear?” Steve asks, both exhausted and exasperated. He just needs clothes to cover his body, and he’s not sure why this is such a big deal, or even why it’s so tiring. The Bucky he knew didn’t care what anyone wore or didn’t wear, in fact, he was somewhat partial to the latter.

It was meant to be a simple question, Steve just wants to wear that too, but Bucky’s face twists slightly, before he slumps back into the couch. He’s contemplative, slightly hesitant, before he answers. “Honestly, much to Tony’s disgust, I’m mainly focused on comfort. I don’t care much as long as it’s soft and warm. He thinks I’m making up for lost time, or something.”

Steve doesn’t understand, but all he wants is to be warm right now so perhaps a part of him does, and decides to stop complaining.

The next package is just a plain white shirt, almost army regulated, a pair of pants that look slim but not tight, and a dark zip jacket with a small collar that’s not enough to flip. It looks manageable, and Bucky gives a hum of approval as they tumble out.

And Steve admits he doesn’t hate it either, as he tries it on. The shirt’s a little tighter than he’d normally pick, and he’s far from conceited but even he can admit he doesn’t look _bad_. It shows off what he didn’t have before, muscles that are still visible when he puts the jacket on. Fitted, but not uncomfortable. The pants, the same. Not as tight as the denim, but slim, and surely not indecent in certain areas.

He’s actually slightly nervous as he pads into Bucky, even more so when one side of his mouth quirks up and he says “Bingo.” 

He’s not quite sure what that means, and can’t bring himself to smile for the picture, just leans against the door-frame to look at Bucky, who’s aura of sadness has suddenly been replaced by a soft peacefulness. It’s only when Bucky chuckles again at the screen that he moves off the door to sit next to him. Bucky tilts the phone so Steve can see.

It’s not a bad photo, Steve doesn't look happy or sad, the clothes do look nice, and Bucky continues his agreement as he’s sent what looks like a small thumbs up. It’s not Bucky’s thumb though.

Steve doesn’t understand Tony’s response, nor why Bucky finds it amusing, so he asks ”Who’s Calvin Klein, and why is he calling?”

“It’s a clothing company,” Bucky says slowly, savoring. 

“Are these Calvin Klein?” He prompts, because Bucky's a little shit, and didn't bother to explain it properly. 

And Bucky gives Steve a grin, that he knows all too well, that he doesn’t like, because he knows it’s a joke at his expense, mostly likely followed by something he’ll hate. “They’re famous for muscular men modelling underwear and nothing else." Steve flushes, and Bucky adds rather unnecessarily, "He’s saying you look attractive.”

Steve hates being right.

He scowls at the phone as it buzzes again. ‘Pepper says no, the lines are wrong.’ Followed immediately by, ‘Like, I’m sorry, you’re kidding me, it’s not my fault the man’s a frickin Dorito.’ Then, ‘I’ll get the next lot tailored.’ 

Steve’s too scared to ask this time, his flush has yet to recede, but Bucky explains anyway. “Pepper is Tony’s partner. A Dorito is a type of corn chip. He’s saying he’s gonna take the waist in.”

“This one’s fine,” Steve protests, confused to what a corn chip even is, and what it has to do with the fit of the jacket, but Bucky waves him off.

“This is the only time I'll give you permission to start your own fight and fight it alone,” and then it’s Bucky’s turn to scowl at the screen.

Even Steve raises his eyebrows at, ‘The real question is how does that ass look in chinos?’

“Those pants are called chinos, and you are by no mean obligated to indulge him with a picture of that.”

“Good,” Steve says, and goes back to sit at his original spot.

He catches as he stands, ‘How much for tailoring? 10 inches sound about right? ;)’ before Bucky throws his phone down.

The last one doesn’t need an explanation.

The clothes are comfortable, something he could get used to, at least. “Is this acceptable?” He asks, and at Bucky’s confused look he clarifies, “Are these kinds of clothes normal? I’m not really looking to attract attention on the street, especially after what you told me.” 

“Everything is normal, D.C’s a bit more reserved, but especially in New York. Actually, in New York, you’re more likely to get weird looks wearing that than a bird in your hair, bare chest and fishnet tights. But yeah, those are a safe option.”

There’s another package of just plain shirts, some long with different coloured sleeves, but mostly plain like the one he’s currently wearing, as if Tony had guessed that is what he’d like. He probably had. There’s also another pair of chinos, darker, and a pair of unripped denims, like he’d seen in Bucky’s cupboard so he doesn’t bother trying those on either. Shorts also tumble out, not boxers, but pants that Bucky assures him are not indecent. In fact, they’re longer than the pants he’d seen the army lads in on a hot day.

There are shoes too, which Tony seemed less flamboyant with, so Steve tries them on to judge their comfort more than anything. There’s a pair that's specifically for running, they feel a bit like clouds.

And for some reason, there’s a whole three-piece navy suit, which even Bucky sighs resignedly at.

“That seems to be all the clothes,” Bucky surmises, and hands him a harder, much larger package.

“For now,” Steve mumbles, and Bucky laughs before repeating in agreement.

Steve smiles. It’s welcoming hearing Bucky laugh, without the stress of a war, or money, or Steve’s health. Even though it’s still strained even now, from what he doesn’t know, tight like the rest of his body, the past few days, it's gradually growing louder and more often. Even if Bucky's not laughing, now that he’s home and slept for 14 hours, he's the most tempered Steve's seen him since he's woken in this future. 

His smile only grows as the contents fall out. This, right here, is every Christmas he could imagine for the rest of eternity.

There's a sketchbook and a few canvases, that Steve's happy, but not particularly fussed about. He's drawn on his hand with a wet pencil before when he'd run out of paper. What's making his heart swell as he lines them up and turns them over are the countless pencils, some of them coloured, others grey, and all sorts of tubes and circles that have no meaning to him but essentially he knows that they're different types of paints. It's been so long, hell, he'd only gotten to use paint in the few classes he'd scrounged to take just before the war was announced. Steve is sure they don't have anywhere else to be, so he reads all of them, twice, before looking up at Bucky, who's also looking slightly awed. 

"What?"

"Nothing," Bucky says, then shakes his head. "Just, it's nice of Tony, is all."

"You didn't ask for these?" Steve's genuinely surprised. 

"I didn't ask for any of this, Stevie. Tony just does it all."

He wonders for the second time, how many stories of Steve that Bucky told, enough for Tony to know something so intimate. 

He looks back down at the art supplies, which shake slightly as Bucky's phone buzzes again. The buzzes mean messages from Tony, so he leans his head to look before he realises that Bucky was angling the phone away this time. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, and pulls away. 

"I've got nothing to hide," Bucky says simply, "But we'll get you your own anyways. Then Tony can fawn over you without me being the middleman. You haven't started a fight for two days, you must be itching already and Tony could give you a run for your money."

Steve flips him off and says, "I haven't got any money, I'd have to borrow yours," which earns him another laugh. 

He pushes the phone towards Steve and he can see himself in the moment he became aware what was inside the parcel. His eyes are so bright, his smile reaching his ears, god there's so much detail, but he looks like a child who could burst with excitement. Underneath, Bucky's just said 'Thank you.'

From Tony, 'I wasn't sure what medium he liked. It's not much, but he can dabble until you let me know.'

'It's perfect. Mostly we were lucky if we could afford pencils, so this is brilliant.'

'My dear Jimothy, we're not in the great depression anymore and the recession never applied for me. If your beau wants paint, I'll buy him paint.'

'No. Don't overwhelm him.' To which Tony hasn't replied. 

Bucky says he wasn't intruding, but Steve still feels a bit that way, so he moves on to the rest of the dwindling pile. 

In the next few are books, categorised together. In one, there's a few Captain America biographies and comics that make him scowl, and he just knows Tony will get a picture of that. The next, he's more grateful for. It's a series of American history books, sorted by decade, from the 1940's up until 2010. The second to last package is similar, but world history. 

Bucky looks relieved when he reads the books. No doubt he thought that the task of catching Steve up was on him, and he’s aware that even what little Bucky’s told him hasn’t been chronological. Judging by the size of the books, he’s missed out on a lot.

The last package is a phone, identical to Bucky's. 

"I don't care about that, it's not like I have anyone to call besides you, and you're here," he says quickly. He's much more interested in the books. 

Bucky's gaze towards Steve is a little timid the rest of the day, almost afraid, but Steve said he would let Bucky know if he wasn’t okay, so Steve isn't entirely convinced it's not something else he can't put his finger on. Bucky is content to let him read the whole day, all the way up to dinner, and then in bed, his side lamp on though Bucky falls straight to sleep. What he does while Steve’s otherwise occupied, he’s not quite sure, but if Steve feels Bucky’s eyes simply watching him for most of it, he doesn’t say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, I just really liked this chapter, I hope you like it too!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next page is a picture of Bucky, a man, and Becca. His hair is still short, and his face is drawn, even in the picture, his smile tight lipped. If Becca hadn’t been in it, he probably wouldn’t have recognised it as Bucky, the features all rearranged wrong, his body taut and his eyes blank. If anything it should be Becca that Steve doesn’t recognise.

There’s a considerably smaller pile of packages waiting the next morning when Steve pads down the hallway what he knows will be at least an hour before Bucky wakes up. 

He’s keen to keep reading, he’s made it past America’s 40’s and is now early 50’s already, but they’re as confusing as they are enlightening. For some reason his mind is drawn back to the scrapbook he saw the day before.

For all that Bucky’s sharing his life- no, Steve is painfully extracting from him, it’s still not the level of personal Steve wants, and though he won't admit it, quite possible needs. Bucky said a few of his sketchbooks made it into a museum, that people wanted to know about him through his art, and this is a similar sort of feeling. A personalised scrapbook might give him some sort of insight that Bucky’s not willing to say.

Plus, he said what’s his is Steve’s, so it’s not technically snooping. Steve likes his technicals.

He slides out the scrapbook by the corner, and there’s a picture on the front of Bucky with a young girl, no more than seven or eight. Her arms are wrapped tight around his neck as he crouches to her height, and their grins are identical, except that hers is missing a few teeth. It’s covered in stickers, an abundance of flowers and love hearts.

Steve opens up the cover, and on the inside is a marking criteria. Not a scrapbook then, a school project. The name Claudia Barnes, 2C, is at the top in careful letters, with ticks along the page, and a smiley face with a ‘Well Done!’ scribbled at the bottom. The next page is simply titled ‘Uncle Bucky’, in the same cautious writing, but large enough to take up the whole page.

Steve flips the page to find a picture of Bucky from the war, with his hair shorter and in full military uniform. He recognises it, it’s the one Winnie and George put on their mantelpiece when he came home from Camp McCoy and said he was to be a Sergeant, probably the one they used for his death. Or apparent death, deaths, he understands despondently. It’s stuck in the middle of the left hand page, affixed with what looks to be a border of gold stars. On the next page it says ‘My Uncle Bucky was born in Brooklyn, NYC in 1917. He has 3 sisters. He fought in the World War II. He was a Sergant. This photo is from 1943 and he is 26.’

The next page is a picture of Bucky, a man, and Becca. His hair is still short, and his face is drawn, even in the picture, his smile tight lipped. If Becca hadn’t been in it, he probably wouldn’t have recognised it as Bucky, the features all rearranged wrong, his body taut and his eyes blank. If anything it should be Becca that Steve doesn’t recognise, she looks older, much older, and has a squirming toddler on her hip, who’s reaching for a man who looks no older than Bucky himself appears. There’s a hand drawn border this time, thick black lines. ‘This is Great Grammy Becca, Grandpa Jamie, my dad Harry and Uncle Bucky in 1976 after he came back from the war. Great Grammy says war changes people. She says he is sad and looks too young. I says he looks handsome.” 

Following that is a photo of Bucky, long haired, holding a newborn, and this is stuck to the page with love heart stickers. The rest of the page is coloured in, red. ‘This is me and Uncle Bucky. I was born on January 23, 1999. He was there for my very first birthday but says we didn’t have cake. We always have extra cake now to make up for it. I like chocolate cake and he always lets me eat his icing.’

The next page is two pictures, diagonal on the page. One is Bucky and a toddler, both muddy and frowning, but Bucky’s is obviously put on, comical even. The other is a picture of a picnic busy with children and adults. Bucky is on a rug, his face barely visible underneath a small mountain of kids. ‘One day Uncle Bucky and I were playing in the mud. Mom said I was grumpy because I didn’t want to have a bath. Me and Uncle Bucky stayed in the mud until after bedtime.’ And ‘We went to Central Park Zoo. All my cousins came and we spent a lot of time with the monkeys. Sometimes Uncle Bucky calls us monkeys when we are loud. We got hot chips for lunch and the birds chased us.’

The next page is Bucky and Claudia and two adults in front of the White House. Bucky looks less than amused, his hands in his pockets, and Claudia is hanging off his legs, her restlessness evident even when captured still in a picture. The adults are smiling, their arms wrapped around each other. ‘Uncle Bucky lives far away. He usually comes to our house, but one time we drove to see him. He has a whole grown up room for me in his house (it’s outside!). He lives near a lake that has ducks sometimes. We look unhappy in this photo because we are because we both think this house is stupid. So we ganged up on mom and dad and made them get us i-cream instead.’ There are drawn rainbows and ice-cream cones, to reiterate her point.

The next page also has two pictures, this time side by side. The first is Bucky holding out his metal arm straight, and there are two children hanging from it, their legs bent mid swing. He’s holding a third, Claudia, upside down by the ankle. The other picture is a line of 5 girls, their backs turned, their hair in different and increasingly elaborate braids. Bucky’s head is half turned to the camera, but Steve can see two braids in his hair. ‘Uncle Bucky is my ~~favrite~~ favourite uncle because he can braid your hair like a princess and it’s always pretty. Sometimes he puts flowers in it. He’s also my favourite because he has a metal arm. He can swing you really high and carry lots of presents with it. All my friends love his arm.’ Steve spends a lot if time on this page, the only explanation he can come up with us how bizarre it seems that Bucky is using his arm so casually. Steve is yet to see that, it's as if he's trying not to use it around him, and cautious about how he holds things with it when he does. 

The next page catches Steve’s breath. It’s a mismatch of red, white and blue, overlapping, and takes up both pages. It’s cut outs from what Steve assumes to be Captain America comics, but there’s some newer looking stickers, some hand drawn shields and flags, and the same photo from Bucky’s bedside, just smaller, to fit on the page. There’s no writing, but when he turns to the next there’s a picture of Bucky and Claudia asleep on the bed, a teddy bear clutched tightly in her arms between them. It dons a black mask, and a red and blue uniform. There’s a small, and very round, drawing of a Captain America uniform and shield. ‘Uncle Bucky was best friends with Captin America. Sometimes my friends don't believe me so I always have a picture in my school bag. They wrote comics about them fighting in the World War II. This is my BuckyBear, I got him for my 6th birthday. I take him everywhere except for Great Grammy Gracie and Great Grammy Evie’s house because mom says it makes them sad. It doesn’t make Uncle Bucky sad, but he says he thinks it’s silly. But he makes BuckyBear tell funny stories in funny voices so I think it’s the okay kind of silly that won’t get you in trouble.’ 

The final page is all writing.

‘I love Uncle Bucky because we always have fun. He says he will be my best friend if I want but I already have a best friend and so does he. Also sometimes I change my best friend and I don’t want to change him, so he is my Uncle and they are forever. I like his funny stories and his loud laugh and I like to call him to help me with my science homework because we went to a ~~sie~~ science museum once. He doesn’t know that this is my big project and if I do good then I will give it to him for his birthday and let him eat his own icing.   
Claudia Barnes’

Steve’s nervous trouble is back by the time he reaches the last page, even though Erskine’s serum was meant to fix that. The arrhythmia too, the prickling of his eyes- no, he’s not experiencing medical distress, just emotional. It should be sweet, he tells himself. Bucky was always good to his sisters, would look out for the younger kids in the schoolyard or the streets and it was clear they all looked up to him. Steve’s glad there’s someone out there showing him the adoration he deserves and he clearly reciprocates. But he’s still worried about how long it took to get there, and if it’s enough for a life.

Now, at least, Steve understands more how Bucky can smile, and still be so sad about it.

Given a brief glimpse into Bucky's life, he's thirsty for more than a child’s perspective. He hopes he'll find something that will make his heart ache less, though he's not sure if it's Claudia's honest tone, or the content, that's hurting him the most. 

When he opens the front door, he’s not surprised to find Phil standing to attention.

“Good morning, Captain,” he says in greeting.

“Just Steve, thanks, if I can call you Phil.”

“Sure.” 

“Coffee?” Phil shakes his head. “Good, because I’ve watched Bucky twice but I still couldn’t guarantee that it would taste any good.”

“I see. Confounded by the coffee machine,” it stings Steve a little, but Phil grins. “If it's a Stark contraption, then I'd be of little assistance. Are you settling in alright, otherwise?”

And Steve lies, partly because he doesn’t trust Phil or who he’s reporting to just yet himself, even if Bucky does, and partly because it’s easier to lie to himself also. “Oh yeah. You ever heard about the Great Depression? If you can survive that, you can survive anything,” and it’s at that point Bucky joins them.

“Morn'n, Phil. Change of guard already?” He asks as a black car pulls into the driveway. Steve’s very self conscious that he’s in his sleepwear in the open doorway as a blonde woman steps out of the car.

“Yeah, I heard Steve’s making coffee so I’m running as far away as possible,” and Bucky all but barks as he heads into the kitchen to start the coffee machine.

The woman approaches them and waves to Phil. 

“Morning, Agent Carter,” Phil says, and Steve’s posture stiffens so much that Bucky barks again, even from the kitchen.

“Sharon Carter,” the woman says, and extends her hand out to Steve. “Peggy’s my great-aunt,” she explains.

“Pleasure, all the same.”

“Yeah, she’s a real pleasure until you have to spar with her,” Bucky says as he comes back to the door. “Coffee, 13?”

Agent Carter, Sharon, also apparently 13, shakes her head. “No thanks, but I do have a message for you. From the Director.”

“So that’s why they sent you?”

“Everyone else was too scared to be the messenger," she teases back. "He says to stop avoiding his calls. He knows where you live, and isn’t afraid to exploit that knowledge,” but it’s still light, not a threat.

In fact, Bucky grins a little devilishly in response. “Well you can tell the director to shove-”

“I like my job, so thanks, but no thanks,” she says loudly over the top of Bucky’s sentence. 

“Eh. The average career change a person has these days is five to seven, and you’re not exactly getting younger, so you should probably get a move on." 

“Bucky,” Steve says, appalled. He goes to apologise on Bucky’s behalf, but Sharon herself is laughing.

“I’d say that it's impossible to age other than in the direction of old, but here you are, as I live and breathe.”

“I got Steve to back my case now too,” he says.

Phil shakes his head and bids his farewell when he can get a word in, and Bucky pulls them back inside, Sharon taking his post.

Steve opens the new packages as Bucky makes him breakfast. He’s not exactly sure what they are, but the first few names are familiar.

“Films,” Bucky says around a piece of fruit, which he only ends up eating half, though it's barely large enough for a child. “DVD’s we call them. Just like we’d see at the theatre, only these you can watch at home, on the television. By the looks of it, this is every Disney animated movie ever. They only got better, too. The stuff they can do these days, its magic.”

“I remember Snow White,” Steve says, and pulls out that one. “God, I remember taking Gracie just so I’d have a reason to go. That wasn’t long before the war.”

“I’ll set the TV back up,” Bucky says after staring at Steve for a moment too long, and he does just that. 

And Steve can see why he hid it, if he was going to a slow reintroduction. Not that he’d had even thought it was a television in the first place. It’s sleek and black, and absolutely huge, though Bucky grumbles that it was a happy compromise in being modest, by Tony’s standards.

He pulls out the film, a small shiny disc, and places it into a machine, explaining as he goes. “Films used to be actual films, I don’t know what the history books say, but yeah, just film like the theatres. You could watch them at home, they were called VHS. Now they’re these, DVD’s, but actually a lot of films these days you don’t even need something physical to watch it with. They’re all on the internet,” and Steve sighs.

Bucky tried to explain the internet briefly over dinner last night and it did Steve’s head in, so he stopped quickly. Apart from that it was everywhere, in the air even, and it was an endless book that could tell you anything, he didn’t quite get it. Bucky said he didn’t either, really, but it was useful and _everywhere_. Steve asked to stick to books for the moment, and Bucky was quick to agree. 

“How many is too many to watch in one day?” Steve asks after they’ve finished Snow White, every bit as amazing as he remembers it.

“Let’s find out,” Bucky says, and puts on Pinocchio. He’s insisted they watch them in order so Steve can work up to the animation, and understand the references alongside his growing history knowledge.

It’s barely even noon before Bucky starts to nod off again, halfway through the movie, and for some reason it’s more interesting to watch Bucky doze than Pinocchio. 

Maybe he’s feeling 94, but Steve still thinks Bucky’s making up for the deprivation he self inflicted over the past, well, however many days it took Steve to get here. He’s not asked, it's not high on his priority intelligence list,not with the books Tony have him. Though for Bucky’s sleep sake, it might be.

The more he watches Bucky, the sadder he feels himself. Compiled with what he read in the first half of the scrapbook, this Bucky looks so, he’s not quite sure the word for it, on edge, perhaps, all the time. Even in his sleep, he’s vigilant, like a coil compressed so tight it could spring at a moments notice. Steve’s not sure if it would be a sure shot, or full of shrapnel, either. He knows a part of that is from the war, where you had to be able to fire a gun a second after waking if you wanted to live another day, but even then he had never noticed a tension as bad as this. Steve’s disgustingly ungrateful, he thinks of himself, as he realises he misses the careless Bucky he once knew, back in Brooklyn. The Bucky who laughed at everyone and everything in between with a twinkle in his eye, would flop onto the couch even at the end of a hard day with not enough worry in his body that he looks like a popsicle melting. The Bucky who didn’t know nine languages and still had both his arms.

Steve really hates himself for that last thought.

But if there’s anything he can do about Bucky’s apparent constant discomfort, he will, he promises to himself and anyone else who might be listening.

Starting with now. Bucky’s had experience sleeping anywhere, anytime, on anything, but he shouldn’t have to now that he’s home, and Steve knows from experience that even with the serum, sleeping like that will crick your neck. So he lays him down on his side and curls his legs up, the leaves to fetch a pillow and a blanket.

Steve returns to watching Bucky. From a different angle, he’s got a myriad of new things to notice. He hadn’t moved the new sketchbook and pencils from yesterday, he’s not exactly sure where he’s meant to put them, for all that this is his home, it’s not _his_ home, so they’re still within reach in the coffee table. This, at least, is familiar, studying Bucky in his sleep, it was the only time he was still enough to capture. 

“What’s I miss,” Bucky mumbles, as he comes to again long after the movie finishes. 

“Uh, I’m not sure, actually,” Steve confesses. “I missed a bit, and then it got confusing to keep up so I haven’t really bothered. The pictures are nice though,” he says, because he feels less embarrassed admitting that then telling Bucky he was watching him sleep instead. He’s already hidden the sketchbook.

Bucky accepts it without question. “Here, I’ll teach you to rewind, and everything else.”

They end up re-watching Pinocchio, and Bucky dozes again, insisting that he doesn’t mind if he misses anything. Just because Steve can, and now knows how, he puts on Fantasia, and then Dumbo. He also doesn’t want to move, or make Bucky do anything else, because the sleep seems to be doing some good. His skin already looks more flushed, the sallowness fading, and Steve's chest feels a little less tight whenever he looks over.

It’s late afternoon when Sharon knocks, and ducks her head in, informing them that she’ll be off. She laughs at the sight, both still in their pyjamas, Bucky asleep with animation in front of them. Steve must look concerned because she rushes, “No, no. Just he's, uh, a bit private. Even with me. This isn’t what I’d expect him to do on his days off.”

“My fault entirely,” Steve assures her, though he has no idea what Bucky actually does on his days off. He has no idea about anything, except chinos and now how to change a DVD. “Apparently this is essential history that I need to catch up on. Bucky’s got a list,” he explains, even though it’s Tony who’s steamrolling it. Tony, who’s been eerily accurate so far, and he has no doubt that being influenced by Bucky growing up means that they’re now nothing short of an extension of each other.

“Well I’m glad you two have got each other,” she says, and it sounds honest, as if she too wouldn’t flinch at the idea of them sharing a bed at this age. But he can’t be sure. “Just, take care,” she says as she leaves, looking like she very much wanted to say something else.

Bucky wakes not much later after that, and Steve’s now back to his place in the book. He’s worked out how to make sandwiches, apparently that hasn’t changed, and Bucky’s is waiting for him on the coffee table. They lay ignored as Bucky rolls off the couch to make a phone call in his study.

Whoever he’s talking to he’s not very happy with, judging by his tone, not that Steve’s listening, he’s _not_ , and his face is drawn when he comes back down the stairs. It’s so much later that it’s now dark. Steve’s made good progress on America’s 50’s, but puts it down when Bucky slumps onto the couch. It’s not in the Brooklyn way he remembered just before, careless and exhausted from a good day's work or play, but despondent and tired from life, it seems.

“Still don’t like taking orders,” he explains.

“Never did understand why you joined the army. Was that the Director?” When Bucky nods he gives Bucky an unsympathetic look. “Army to S.H.I.E.L.D, why’re you only doing jobs that give you orders then?”

“Not good at much else, apparently. Actually, I don’t reckon I’m much good at taking orders anyway.”

“You just know how to charm your way out of the trouble that follows when you don’t,” Steve agrees.

He hums as he stares at the black TV, still slumped down. “You hungry?” He asks suddenly.

“Aren’t you?”

“Don’t really get hungry anymore,” he shrugs, but gets up to start dinner.

It’s lamb tonight, the best lamb he’s ever tasted, and Bucky even lets him help cut the vegetables.

Steve can tell he’s only half listening as he explains the parts of the movies to him he missed, but when he brings up Sharon’s goodbye, Bucky sits straighter.

“Not yet,” he says, before Steve can even ask.

“You said when we were out, we could go visit Peggy.”

“Not tomorrow. Thursday, we can go,” he says, as if Steve even knows what today is. Truthfully, the year overshadowed the date, but it should certainly be on his knowledge list, if he's preparing for society. 

“Why not? I don’t exactly think we have plans tomorrow. I had fun watching the films today, but I don’t want to do that every day. I’ll go mad, and quickly.”

Bucky pushes his food around again. Maybe that’s why he’s being so stubborn, he always got moody between rations or meals. And Steve’s not seen him eat a meal yet, not in this house, or at S.H.I.E.L.D. “Thursday, Stevie,” he says, still in the same gentle tone like he thinks Steve is the Sunday china, or will have an asthma attack. It’s soft, but it grates all the same.

“You said I’m not a prisoner here, so I’ll go tomorrow. With, or without you. But I don’t want to go alone, Buck, I’d like you to come with me.”

“If you do that, I’ll actually stop you. No shut it, Stevie, let me explain,” he cuts off when Steve opens his mouth. “And believe me, this is the only time I’ll put somebody else above you, but it’s Pegs. Firstly, I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to completely break down about the future or her when you see her. It’s evident _now_ that that’s not going to happen,” he says, holding a hand up at Steve’s face, “But I didn’t know that two days ago. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t really seem like you care too much that you died and woke up in a new century.”

So Steve's done well. Maybe Bucky’s own memory of him is fuzzy after all these years, and he doesn’t remember Steve’s tells. Or maybe Steve is doing as well as could be expected.

“But I visit Peggy every Thursday to play cards, and that’s a routine. She needs routine, I don’t care if it’s the president, or that god you believe in, but my visiting hours are 3pm-4pm on a Thursday. She’s in a facility, Stevie, she’s got what’s called Alzheimer’s disease.”

He’s heard of that, but he can’t help but butt in. “They locked her up for it?”

“It’s not like that. She did so well for so long, but these days, she forgets more than she remembers. It’s hard for a family to care for her, she needs constant attention. It’s for her own good,” he insists again, at Steve’s face. “She’s still so determined to be independent, but when she forgets where she is, or what she’s doing, well, it only takes less than a second. She could choke, or fall, or walk off and end up miles from home, or get upset and hurt herself. It’s a nice place, and the nurses care for her. She has a lot of visitors, and when she’s present, she says herself she likes it.”

“Will she remember me?”

“She usually remembers the older stuff, it’s more that she might forget what she did that recently, that day, or lately it’s forgetting mid sentence that you’ve already been there for an hour. On a bad day, we’ll just play cards, doesn’t matter how many times she asks, we’ll just start again. But even if she does, we’ll go next Thursday, and the Thursday after, and the one after that, and she’s got a pretty good rate.”

Steve stares at him, trying to decipher the tone Bucky’s using. It’s fonder, sweeter, than he’s ever used on him, or any other girl he’s heard Bucky talk about, and his face is much the same. 

“It’s hard, but it’s Peggy,” Bucky shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “She did the same, much more, for me. So yeah, give yourself a day to wrap your head around it. Some of the books in the study explain it better, if you want to read them. You don’t have to be an expert on it, but if it doesn’t seem like you’re going to do right by her, I’m not taking you. I’ve already called the home, and I’ll call them again Thursday before we go, and if they say no, we’re not going either.”

It’s not the information that shocked Steve into silence, more so Bucky’s defensiveness. The coil inside him is impossibly tighter, and he has no doubt he’d tackle Steve down if he so much as thought a bad think in Peggy’s direction. He wonders again, the picture upstairs, but-

No, surely not.

He'd tell Steve, wouldn't he?

They watch another movie after, Bambi, but Steve’s heart isn’t in it enough to cry. He's wrung out, he's not sure why, but it's an exhaustion that's almost as to his bones as the cold was. After Steve has showered, there’s two books from the study about their dinner topic on his bedside table and the lamp on.

Bucky’s already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally here for the "Steve loves Disney movies" tumblr post (I'm not sure who the original is, but credit to them).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they get home, there’s a singular package waiting for him. Bucky hands it to him, and walks away.
> 
> It’s his compass, with Peggy’s picture inside. Except that it’s not.

Steve pleads his case so hard the next morning that Bucky relents. He’s grateful, surprisingly, that Bucky’s idea of leaving the house is to go for a run, even if it turns out to be close to the house, in the reserve.

Steve dresses in the specific clothes for exercise, and the socks, and the shoes. Once he gets past the first mile, and the fear that they’re going to fall off underneath him, they’re much better than running in boots. 

They’re heaven. 

It’s not even that they’re only the second pair of brand new shoes he’s ever had in his life, the first being his uniform for the USO tours. Everything else has been handed down or bought from a second hand store, worn through until the soles of his feet hit the pavement themselves. But these are something else, these _sneakers, Bucky_ calls them, though Steve's not sure how good they’d be for stealth. He doesn’t care about the name or it’s false double meaning, because right now, running, they’re soft and supportive. He’s already lost the rough, calloused skin of his feet, but he doesn’t think they will be replaced with blisters after this.

It’s honestly probably one of the first times that Steve has ever run, willingly, and only as an activity. His lungs and muscles wouldn’t allow it before the serum, and everything since has been towards gunfire, or away from it. 

But he likes it. Bucky keeps a steady pace, more so than he thinks a normal human could keep, certainly nothing he showed after Krausberg, but it’s enough to challenge Steve. He doesn’t even hate the burn in his chest by the end, it’s not a warning sign, except of anything other than he might be a bit unfit, rested too much for too long. He looks at Bucky’s watch, and it’s been almost an hour.

Steve is hungry by the end, and it’s surprising Bucky’s even managed the run just on coffee, and not much dinner the night before. But when they slow, Bucky doesn’t make a move to head back home. Instead, he leads them past the lake, further away from the house. Where the reserve led into a forest, this is more suburban. There’s a playground, and families milling around, while a few individuals run or walk the lake.

Bucky walks up a small hill, and they just sit. Well, Steve sits, and watches the people, but Bucky lies back, fingers laced together across his chest, his eyes closed as the sun hits his face. He’s worn a long running shirt and a glove, and Steve knows it’s only to hide the metal.

“Is this your usual track?” Steve asks after a short period of silence.

“Sometimes, but not usually. I like running near the monument. Usually early morning,” and Steve scoffs, because the past few days Bucky’s not been up earlier than 9:00am. “I don’t get up early,” he admits and cracks an eye open, but it’s too sunny. “I stay up if I can’t sleep, and then run at a reasonable time so people don’t think I’m a weirdo who’s going to murder someone. I keep hoping it will tire me out, but hasn’t worked so far. Apparently it’s still good for your heart, in any case.”

Steve alternates between looking at Bucky, and a group of ducks that have waddled out of the lake, edging towards some apprehensive toddlers.

“There’s always a group of either vets, or still serving, no matter what time you go, and they’re always up for a chat if you are. There’s coffee shops near it too, and a breakfast place that does smoothies. People are big on that, replacing meals with drinks,” he says a little disgruntled, and Steve doesn’t think he should point out that that’s exactly what Bucky seems to be doing with coffee. “Drinking their calories, some even claim it’s healthier. Just didn’t want to take you somewhere you’d be recognised until you knew what you’d be in for. Not that S.H.I.E.L.D’s broken you’re alive yet.”

“I’ve never run much, but it’s not bad,” Steve says, watching the toddlers grow bold and throw food at the ducks.

“Never were one to run from a fight,” Bucky agrees, and it's the least strained smile he's seen from him so far, even if it's small.

“Nah, I mean, at all. It’s nice. We should do this again.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, we can do that,” Bucky says. “A lot of people run or ride inside on machines, but I don’t see the point. Got a whole wide world out there and they pay to stare at the same spot while they do. Call them gyms, but I can't get around the word, not gyms like you'd know them. No ropes, no vaults, no boxing, just machines and weights. The weights wouldn’t even do you much either, they’re not heavy enough. Tony can help, he’s modified some gear, if you want to waste away doing that.” 

Steve thinks for a moment, but it's been almost 18 months since the serum, and his muscles haven't reversed from lack of weight lifting yet. Even if they did, maybe his shirts wouldn't be as tight, there would be no reason to let Tony know he needed a smaller size. “Nah, we can stick this, if that’s okay,” Steve replies, and so does his stomach.

“You want to leave?” Bucky asks as he props himself back up on his elbows.

“Not yet.” It's a small taste of freedom, and he's no ready to give it up quite yet when he doesn't know when Bucky will give him another chance. They sit there a while longer, long enough for Bucky to lay back down, it’s not sleep, not yet, but he does look rested. He’s pulled his hair back for the run, enough for a small bun though it’s a little pushed askew from lying on it. Maybe Calvin Klein should call him, Steve thinks, and immediately takes the thought back.

It’s not like Steve is _wrong_. Pulling his hair back highlights the angle of Bucky's jaw and his cheekbones, even if they are a little too sharp. The difference, not just the bun but the outside too, makes Steve realise that Bucky’s been using his is as a shield, a mask, angling his head forward so his hair falls forward over most of his face, most of the time. It hasn't bothered Steve yet, it's a small startle to wake and see long hair, not an army cut, but in this light he thinks he could understand why Bucky keeps it long. It looks good. More than good.

Maybe Steve will learn to braid. Claudia will like that, too.

He grimaces slightly, and the air around his body must change too because Bucky muses, eyes still closed, “What?”

“I was just seeing what other books you had, in the lounge, and I came across a scrapbook.”

“Oh,” Bucky replies, neither offended or annoyed. “Yeah, Claudia was really proud of that. She’s a bit embarrassed with it now, it was a few years ago, but I thought it was sweet.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Steve admits tentatively. 

“It’s fine. What’s mine is yours, Stevie,” he says, and it’s a twisted sort of fondness Steve’s never heard before. “But obviously, everyone else’s life went on after 1945. Becca got married to a soldier she’d nursed, and had Jamie later that year.”

“Jamie?” Steve poaches, and Bucky smiles, but it’s back to his sadness, his hands gripped tighter.

“James. She kept her own last name too, she copped a lot of flack for it, but I think she was a bit worried that the Barnes name would die out otherwise. So yeah, James Barnes. I’m just glad she didn’t call him Buchanan too. She had Bruce a few years later, then Linda, but she died quite young. Bruce had John, and John had Mark and Alex and they’ve both got children on the way. Jamie had Harry, Heath and Holly. Harry had Claudia, she’s 12 now. Heath has Sam, and Holly has Freya and Francine, she likes Frankie though.” 

“Jesus, that’s just Becca," Steve breathes. "You’re going to have to write that down.”

“Oh yeah. Especially the kids. They’ll be devastated if Captain America doesn’t remember who they all are. But yeah, I guess all my sisters wanted big families. I think they didn’t want any of them growing up lonely, you know how noisy our place always was.”

Bucky continues with Grace’s life, and Evelyn’s, and although Steve’s slightly overwhelmed trying to keep up, but he’s too captured by the fact that Bucky’s actually talking, freely talking. He’s telling facts, listing them off methodically as if they’re memorised, and Steve can note just from the tone of the voice the members he likes better and not as much. For all Bucky tells about them, the take away is that they all live in New York City, they’re close even with the size of the families, and Bucky flits in and out. More out than in, and there’s still the underlying sadness that Bucky’s not shaking, unlike Steve’s receding chill. 

Steve doesn't say anything when he's finished, there's nothing for him to say, and when the sun hides behind the clouds for too long, Steve decides he's had enough.

When they get home, there’s a singular package waiting. Bucky hands it to him, and walks away.

It’s his compass, with Peggy’s picture inside. Except that it’s not.

He pulls the note tucked in the parcel.

 _The picture didn’t survive the water and ice quite as well as you did. I’ve still included it, if you’re_ _that_ _sentimental, but I’ve also put in a nicer one version of exactly the same (and this one will survive anything short of a nuclear blast, so feel free to crash another plane with it. Actually, don’t. And don’t tell Bucky I said that). Just wasn’t sure if you’d still want the original. - T.S_

He doesn't say anything to Bucky, who's watching him from the island, just heads upstairs to find his phone. He looks at the compass for a few more minutes before he, like Bucky showed him, types in ‘Thanks’.

“You got stuff for smoothies?” Steve asks when he walks into the kitchen, over the sound of the coffee machine.

“Yeah, actually, what flavour do you want?”

“Let me do it.” He argues, “Come on, Buck, you won’t even let me butter my own toast.”

And Bucky relents, watching silently as Steve works it out on his own, it’s not that hard, and doesn’t grimace when he uses too much of everything. If Bucky realises that he’s done it on purpose, he doesn’t say, and silently accepts the glass Steve pushes towards him. He only drinks some, and Steve tries not to sigh.

From there, Bucky’s more inclined to get the day started, it’s close to noon, and seems a bit lighter. He picks up his own book, a title that gives nothing away, and reads a little.

Steve’s almost finished the 60’s, it sounds fun, but Bucky just shrugs in a way that says he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“The music was alright,” is the only thing he offers, and Bucky does something with his phone, that does something to the TV, and suddenly the lounge room is filled with noise.

“Who is this?”

“Not sure, it’s a best of,” Bucky shrugs. “It’s all on the internet, I’ll show you how later. The 70’s was better,” and Steve’s not sure if he’s talking about the music or his own situation. 

Steve decides not to ask anymore questions about the 60’s, because Bucky’s close to bristling by now, but there’s one glaring thing that he just can’t ignore.

“You know they sent a man to the moon?” 

It makes Bucky smiles, at least. “Yeah, pretty standard, that one, teach it to all the school kids. Bet you would have signed up for that.”

Steve shakes his head before he even understands why. Howard’s plane taking fire, the Valkyrie, he’s not so sure he likes flying all too much. Bucky studies him, and seems to know, though Steve himself doesn't offer an explanation.

“Yeah, actually, you’d probably be too tall now. That, or your head wouldn’t fit in a helmet,” and Steve scowls for good measure.

Bucky puts a movie on after dinner, almost a routine now, and Steve likes it. He hopes he can add runs into the schedule in the morning when Bucky wakes up, but he’ll need to find something else once these books are finished. They’re long, and thorough, he enjoys them and reading. But it’s not a life, not a living.

Bucky leaves to take a phone call, and Steve means to pause the film but he does something else.

Something horrific.

Bucky doubles over when he re-enters the room and sees what Steve’s watching, elbows to knees, leaned forward to the TV as if his eyesight was bad again.

“It was an accident,” he says once Bucky’s stopped laughing, but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “I don’t know how to change it. I’m not sure I would, even if I could.”

“Welcome to reality TV, Stevie.”

“I hate it. But I can't stop. Why can’t I stop, Buck?”

Bucky just keeps laughing. 

“I’m disgusted, at these people, and myself. Bucky, why is this happening?”

“I don’t know, I never really got the appeal myself. But you’re not the only one, the whole world loves it, love them. Some of these people end up with the same amount of power as the president afterwards.”

“I want to help them. Help them all. Surely this is a science experiment.”

“I’ve always thought so, of sorts. The cameras, pitting people against each other, manipulating them, depriving them of a normal life. Some of it’s not entirely unfamiliar,” Bucky says, and though his words are light, Steve’s suddenly more repulsed than before.

He hands Bucky the remote and says, “The movie’s not finished. I was just trying to pause it, how do we get it back?”

It turns into a full lesson on how to operate the entire TV, and it’s far more straightforward than Steve thought. He makes a mental note to avoid this channel, especially if Bucky’s around.

Bucky barely makes it to the end of the movie, yawning over the dialogue, and Steve adds to his notes to include in exercise where possible, not for his own sake. But he can’t find it in himself to sleep, his mind too loud in the quiet, the bed still too soft. Bucky never told him much about Krausberg, or Zola, but he never used to shut down quite like he has lately whenever it was mentioned afterwards. 

There’s so much he wants to ask Bucky, what exactly his abilities are besides apparently living forever and running fast and surviving a million mile drop, if he's like Steve, or a bit different. Steve wants to know what Bucky has done these past 66 years, and why can’t he relax or eat, and where has the sadness come from. As if Bucky knows, even in his sleep, he twitches a little, curling in on himself, so Steve tries to think of something else.

He thinks of Peggy, of tomorrow, until Bucky relaxes a little, but those thoughts hurt just as much, so he goes back to thinking about Bucky, until it's an endless cycle. 

In the end, he curls his knees up and lies on his side, to look at Bucky, sleeping, but still not resting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn’t have time to think on it before he opens the door.
> 
> It’s-
> 
> Peggy, he realises.
> 
> Peggy.
> 
> A little, no completely, greyer, her skin wrinkled, but it’s Peggy, so fiercely, even just sitting there gazing out a window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 98% sure Peggy day doesn't turn out like some of you are expecting, so, uh, sorry?
> 
> *trigger warning for a brief and not in-depth talk about eating habits and Steve crashing the plane towards the end, please be careful*

The next morning, Steve feels how he thinks Bucky looks, though after another 12 hours of sleep Bucky does look better still. He hits Steve with a pillow after he turns off the alarm. 

“It’s Peggy day. Thought you’d be up for ages, tryna look nice. It’ll take that long,” and Steve hits him back with his own pillow.

Instead of a run, Bucky takes Steve into the garage. He moves the car out and hangs up a punching bag instead. Steve looks at him, slight curiosity etching his features. 

“Figure it’s been more than two days since you hit something,’ he says with a grin.

Steve punches him instead.

Though that’s twice this morning he’s boffed Bucky, so perhaps he’s not entirely wrong. And just like the run, Steve is pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoys it, how much personal return there seems to be. For all the fights he picked growing up, he never actually got a punch in, and Steve hurt his hand more than the bag the two weeks Bucky dragged him to Goldie’s. At Basic he was still so slight, never mind that the USO tours were fake punches. He learnt what he could as he went with the Commandos, and the rest he just threw the shield for. He doesn’t ask, but Bucky shows him a few moves, some that seem familiar so it’s probably not the first time, and steps back.

“Tony reinforced the bag,” Bucky explains, when he sees Steve pulling his punches. “Go for it.” 

It’s relaxing, he finds, to put some effort in. It’s tiring almost immediately, in a different way than the run. Bucky makes no further corrections, or move to join, or start his morning, just stands in the doorway, watching. Steve is a little self conscious, but Bucky’s definitely seen him in worse situations, red faced for other reasons. 

“You box much?”

“Yeah, a few times a week, when I can’t sleep.” There it is again, causing Steve to narrow his eyes, looking for signs of fatigue now, though his first thought was that Bucky looked better. They’re everywhere, bright neon lights flashing enough to give Steve a fit, just hidden before by his blind hope. “Tires you out like nothing else. Handy to know how to punch too, keep up old skills for work. Tony’s got some that hit back, but they hit hard so I just stick with this for home.”

“Just how strong are you, these days?”

Bucky shrugs, and looks away. “Never really tested it. Strong enough, I guess.”

Steve eyes him. He’s bulkier than Steve remembers him a week ago, but still lean, a part that he’s sure is from lack of a proper meal schedule. Bucky won’t say, and Steve might not understand the words anyway, but there is a sure way to find out. “Wanna spar?”

He’s surprised again when Bucky says yes, with a grin, a genuine ‘You’re in for it now, punk’ beam that’s not marred with anything from the future. “But not today. Peggy will be upset if we rock up with shiners. Give us one herself, probably, and she’s still got a sharp tongue.”

His stomach twists a little when he remembers where they’re going, scrambles further when Bucky sees it on his face and grips his shoulder, leaving it there a moment.

He goes back to punching, at which Bucky takes his leave to make coffees, no doubt, so Steve hits as hard as he can, swallowing his pride and preparing himself. He’s more daring with his combinations now that Bucky’s not watching, breathing hard, the bag swaying a little when Bucky comes back in, and leans against the bike this time.

“You and Peggy…” he starts, settling the bag, but he’s all nerves and he goes back to punching. “You, you know?”

“What?” Bucky asks, but Steve gives him what Bucky calls the ‘Steve’ look, and Bucky laughs. “What, no, Stevie! Peggy married a guy from the 107th actually, turned SSR.” 

That’s enough for Steve, who already feels foolish for the thoughts, though they were barely formed. He never truly believed it, or rather hoped, but for all that Bucky’s not saying, it’s nice to have the confirmation. “I just thought-, the picture, and you weren’t tell me anything.”

“You thought I married Peggy behind your dead back and then wasn’t going to give you a heads up about it?” 

“You’re the one who said the world was strange, no good people left. Couldn’t think of much worse,” he says but doesn’t mean it, his heart is lighter for the information.

“I, uh,” and he fidgets, but then stills. Bucky is trying to disguise his discomfort but in his efforts, only results in pronouncing it. “I dunno. Peggy did a lot for me, and then some. I owe her more than a picture on a desk and a weekly visit, but she won’t take it.”

Steve studies him, as he lets the words, and Bucky's demeanor sink in. “Course she won’t,” Steve says, his own time to grip Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah go on, you gotta shower, no amount of time’s gonna scrub the ugly off. But you gotta try for your best girl,” Bucky says, shrugging him off. “Her husband is actually dead now though if you wanna give it a go,” he grins, and ducks away from Steve’s hand for the third time, chuckling a little.

Steve showers, finally able to use some of the cool water to soothe his burning muscles, aching more than he’d care to ever admit. He finds his mind is also calmed, almost organised, able to think straight. Perhaps it's the familiar feeling of cold, he was forever freezing in Europe, and that’s where he did his best, possibly only, strategising. But Peggy is not a mission, a task, and even if she were, Steve is charging in with somewhat the same amount of information he had for Krausberg. It makes him, not nervous, no, but he’s something. Apprehensive, perhaps. As time passes, and the water continues to fall, the droplets painfully remind him of tears, of grief, and in an instant it’s too much. He turns the shower back to only hot, burning away even the thought of ice from the plane.

The house is more quiet than usual when he finally steps out, his skin and thoughts all but burnt away in the shower and washed down the drain. He's not even changed before he starts to feel a little uneasy, Bucky’s not left his side in all this time, and wouldn't, not before Peggy. Just like the water, he barely has time to think on it before it’s a sharp crawling underneath his skin and a racing heart.

He’s panicking too much to notice the obvious signs, perhaps he’s not as good as the history books Bucky has told him about say he is. Both the laundry and the back door are ajar, and when he listens further than the pounding and rattling in his chest, it seems that Bucky is simply outside. 

Or not, he’s not in the small yard, Steve doesn’t care for the garden or chairs or the barbeque, just what he can see of the extra room, door also open.

Bucky is the complete contrast to Steve’s panic, and it does a little to settle him. What actually works the most, is the slight shock he gets when he steps inside the rumpus room, the room for Tony, or the kids, Bucky mentioned. 

Bucky wasn’t lying when he said his TV was small by means of today. There’s one mounted on a side wall, almost the entirety of it, and strewn underneath are small black boxes and controllers, headphones which don’t seem dissimilar to the pilot types he knows, and microphones. Steve doesn’t even bother trying to identify half the other gadgets in the room, they clearly weren’t around between his time and the 60’s, and he’s not sure they’d actually have enough time to count them all. 

There’s no way to tell what colour the walls are, they’re layered with posters of movies and bands he doesn’t know. Crammed in, though it’s a large space, is a fair sized bed, large bean shaped cushions in front of the TV, and a table with both a tool box and loose tools on it.

It looks like what his Ma would call a warzone, not in front of any men's from his Pa's unit who'd pop round once in a blue moon, shelves and boxes on one side overflowing with toys; trucks, dolls, books, fake guns, art supplies and costumes. It’s the messiest part of Bucky’s house, and it’s not even messy, it’s just that the room is actually filled, and it’s all for children.

Steve picks up a toy he almost stepped on, he has no clue where to even begin to identify what it is, and Bucky finally looks down from the ladder, and says, “Tony.”

“How old is Tony?”

“Um, dunno. 40, maybe 41? I should know, feel like he’d have a big 40th that I’d remember, but honestly most of his parties are big and he doesn’t even show for them. Age is fairly irrelevant for me most times. Why’s that?”

“Just seems like, a child’s room, is all. Or a teenager’s heaven.”

“Tony is a child,” Bucky says darkly, and Steve raises his eyebrow. “Why do you think I’m fixing the lights? I wouldn’t move from that spot, either, if you want to keep alive in this century.”

Steve looks around in alarm, and Bucky laughs from his perch. “Kidding. Kinda,” he adds, as an afterthought. 

Bucky’s always liked to have busy hands, and a busy mind, it’s clear that’s still his preference with how comfortable he looks right now. He’s so relaxed he speaks without Steve further prompting.

“He likes to tinker, he’s ridiculously smart and creative, and when he’s got an idea it doesn’t matter what he needs to use, he’s got to get it out of his head right then and there. Made a bomb in here once, just a small one, and accidentally left it lying around, neither of us picked up on it between visits. Blew Freya’s eyebrows off and Holly’s hair caught fire trying to get her away. She chewed my ear off good for that, mind you she’d been wanting to cut it short for ages and hasn’t grown it back since, but that didn’t help my case much when I mentioned it.” Steve watches with a slight horror, unsure if it’s as funny as Bucky finds it, but he continues with a shrug. “The girls got free dance lessons for a year and more than enough make up to paint all the hair on their head on, Holly and Tony seem mostly good for it now.”

He’s quiet again as he keeps working, and Steve is slightly dejected, back to his nerves. He can’t even pretend to offer to help, the wires and bulbs are just another thing he doesn’t know how to do, doesn’t know about. He adds it to his ever growing list with cooking, internet and reality TV and a large majority of the things he reads in the books Tony gave him. At the top of the list, underlined and blocked letters, is most importantly Bucky.

He knows what the words are, can even see some of them in front of him, but he just plain and simple doesn’t understand.

It’s not doing wonders for his own mood, but Bucky is unnaturally at ease while fixing the roof, and even if it doesn’t last, he wants to be around the feeling as long as he can, maybe to hold on to later. He brings his book back in for cover and sits on the bed while Bucky takes almost the whole roof out, for whatever he’s doing. Half distracted between watching and reading, his eyes flit back and forth, but when Bucky’s shirt reaches up a little as he lifts his arms, that’s when Steve decides to firmly keep his eyes on the pages in front of him.

“He’s got a beach house in Malibu, well an actual house, but he mostly lives this Coast now. You’ll like it, it’s always warm and surfing’s not bad,” Bucky mentions as he climbs down. He looks up to the roof and flicks a switch twice, and hums at his work.

“You’re in a good mood today,” Steve notes, before he can catch the words. He doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s been in a bad mood, but Bucky is certainly different today. His shoulders are less taut, and he's talking, and smiling fully, and he seems almost as bright as the lights he just fixed. 

“It’s Thursday,” he says with yet another throwaway shrug that Steve dislikes, now added to his list. The shrugs make him feel like it’s something he should already know, he should know what ‘It’s hard but it’s Peggy’ means, or why it’s okay that Tony made a bomb, or why Thursdays are the only day Bucky can be happy. He must look frustrated because Bucky concedes, and explains, “I like seeing Peggy. You’re not the only one she charmed, you know. That, and she’s been a good friend.” He packs up his tools, then adds, “Besides, she’s one of the only ones left who actually remembers the 30’s, well some of the time, and that’s not a bad feeling. It’s why I’m still keeping you around,” he says with a wry smile.

Friends is not the word Steve would have called the little of what he saw of them together. As if he catches the thought, Bucky turns serious and says gently, “It’s been a long time, pal. You know it’s not going to be the same, right?”

The comment is the truth, not anything he hasn’t already thought of, but compounds to his surly disposition and Steve can’t help but pout. “Of course I know that, I’m not an idiot. Doesn’t mean I can’t see her, she was my good friend first. You know I’m not thinking of anything else.”

“Don’t really know what you’re thinking right now,” Bucky says after a beat, and the discomfort Bucky tried to hide in the garage is back.

Steve’s pout grows, he’s sure his gaze turns steely. Bucky’s own glow dims as he waits for him to reply. When it’s become painfully too long, and the light of his face is now a shadow, Bucky turns on his heel and heads back into the house. 

At least that makes two of them. 

And even though they think they don’t know each other’s minds any more, that very much felt like a silent fight. One that they would have usually talked on, or shaken each other out of.

But Bucky walked away and Steve let him.

Bucky takes his time getting ready, Steve has a feeling it’s deliberate, however he’s not sure what he’d say himself, what that even was about except the raw frustration of not knowing his best friends with 66 years in between them, but also only a week. 

It’s not a good place to be, Steve doesn’t want to feel like this, and he’s annoyed that it’s come just now when the past few days have been somewhat stagnant. Glaringly, Bucky said he wouldn’t let him visit Peggy if he wasn’t all sorted, and he’s not sure if Peggy will actually make him feel better, but he knows for sure he'll be more unbalanced if he has to wait another week. He turns his attention solely to the books to distract himself, and ensure at the very least, he’s got some sort of history to talk to Peggy about. That, and Tony’s history, and now Steve’s few days. 

Just not Bucky’s.

“Put on the Calvin Kleins,” Bucky calls out while he’s shaving. He may not know Bucky’s mind, or life, but he knows that voice, and there’s no amount of faking that would make the teasing sound that authentic. Steve sticks his head in the bathroom so Bucky can see his scowl, and gets another genuine smile for his efforts. He lets out his breath, a silent relief, and he’s calm again.

Begrudgingly, he dons the outfit that earned an array of comments from Tony, closely matching Bucky’s outfit, albeit his is darker, but he feels a little more comfortable that it seems to be acceptable for their visit. Bucky smiles again, and Steve thinks he himself might quite like Thursdays as well, if only for what they seem to do to Bucky.

The only thing that could add to it so far is if Peggy is more willing to talk about herself, or Bucky, and not just in a code Steve is yet to crack.

"What did Peggy do for you?" Steve asks, as they pull into a car park. 

"What?" Bucky startles, clearly caught off guard.

"You said you owe her, that she did something for you."

"Oh, that. Maybe later. I promise," he insists at Steve's face, no sign of their tiff, just slight amusement. "You just look a little queasy right now. Might want to get in there already."

It is nice, a rather nice place to be cared for. They’re greeted on the way in, there’s flowers and plants basking in warm sunlight, and a steady flow of people so he knows no one could feel alone. This part of the future doesn’t feel quite so forlorn as Bucky’s house.

Steve isn’t feeling sickly, but his palms begin to sweat as they walk down the hall, clamming on his own flowers Bucky picked from the backyard, purple and blue with pale green leaves, smelling of forest and lavender and pure nature, in a way that reminds him of Bucky. 

“You want a moment alone?” Bucky asks as they must near Peggy’s room.

“What for, you’ll still hear us, won’t you?”

“I can take a walk.”

“Nah. Some back up might be nice. She did shoot me, you know. Multiple times, and-,” he trails off as Bucky’s brows furrow slightly, his tongue poking out between his lips. As quickly as it comes, it’s replaced with a reserved sort of fondness on it that lights up his whole face. The expression is not one he’s seen for Bucky’s family, or Steve. Without actually knowing, he knows that it’s one for the past.

“I forgot, yeah, she did,” he breathes. “Sad I never got the chance myself,” he chuckles, but grips his shoulder again. It doesn’t linger like it did the first time, though Steve doesn’t have time to think on it before he opens the door.

It’s-

Peggy, he realises.

 _Peggy_.

A little, no completely, greyer, her skin wrinkled, but it’s Peggy, so fiercely, even just sitting there gazing out a window. He stops a moment, unable to move further, not even to stop Bucky from taking the flowers out of his hand.

“Oh, Steve,” she gasps.

“Hey, Peggy.”

They simply stare at each other, Steve rooted to the spot, until she makes to rise from her chair, a little wobbly. In less than a bound and step he’s there, she’s there. She’s still rising, so Steve moves to steady her arm which she promptly pushes back. He can’t keep the fond off his own face now, of course Peggy wouldn’t need help, doesn’t need help, but it’s gone unseen by her as she wraps her arms around him and doesn’t let go.

“Oh jeez, not this again,” Bucky huffs after a very possibly long time, and she lets go, giving Steve a moment to dry his eyes. “Whip n’ Fiddle all over again. Been coming here for years and I get nothing. You, waltz right in and it’s like I’m chopped liver.”

“We could never afford chopped liver Buck, I’d take it,” Steve says with a smile back to the door. It’s then that Peggy starts to cry as she looks between the two.

“Aw, Pegs,” Bucky says and heads over to kiss her cheek. “You’ll drown in your sleep if the tears get caught in your wrinkles, you know. They’ll run into your mouth when your head’s tilted flat, get you when your guard is down.” She’s wearing the same look Bucky does when he mentions her, as she pats his cheek. He places the flowers in a vase as she sits back down while gesturing for them to both sit too.

“It’s just been so long,” she says, reaching for Steve’s hand. “I thought I’d lost my mind completely when Bucky said you were alive, then called him all manner of god awful things for playing such a cruel joke on me. But here you are.”

“Here we all are,” Steve says, because really, that’s the miracle of it all.

“Yes, indeed,” and she lets Steve hold onto her hand, turn it over and trace the weathered skin.

It seems like she’s waiting on him, he doesn’t want it, but understands that it’s fair. It has been much longer for her, so he wonders what to say, his mind blank of anything but her. They don’t talk for the longest while, yet it’s nothing but comfortable, Bucky watching Steve watch Peggy, watch him right back. He doesn’t need to really look at her, she’s still so Peggy, her features beautiful, something he’d already memorised a long time ago, but he still wants to. In the end, he settles on starting at the beginning. “Mighta called Bucky a few nasty names in my own head waking up, too, least that hasn’t changed much.” Bucky huffs a little, but it makes Peggy laugh. He’s not got much to say for being back, or alive, he’s not figured out the word for it yet, less than a week. But she’s still patient, and he’s overwhelmingly grateful for Tony’s books in the moment, and he just plucks at whatever is floating in his mind to appease her. She listens to the things he says he’s learnt, and adds her own thoughts where relevant. Her laugh tinkles after facts he says he finds fascinating, that she explains are no longer relevant, to which Bucky grumbles, “Spoilers.” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D’s been good to us, so far,” Steve concludes, hoping it’s final enough for her. He doesn’t want to talk about calculators or cassettes, he wants to know about her. 

“Well I better bloody hope so,” so indignantly spoken it makes both men laugh.

Steve is still holding her hand, it’s the same sort of warmth he felt when Bucky held his hand. He’s not so cold, but he thinks that if he’s ever too warm, from the feeling of her hand, it would be worth it.

Bucky sits back, further than him, and lets the conversation flow mostly between Steve and Peggy as she begins her own stories. She tells him of her life, and instead of his own sadness he thought he’d feel in this moment, that he felt when he looked at the compass as he pushed the plane down and could her voice catching, he just feels a sense of pride, of joy, that she’d crafted such a full life and enjoyed it in the process. 

“Sorry we never got our dance,” Steve says, and he figures he’s allowed to mourn that. She’d be a swell dancer, and for all he can’t dance, it’s no question she’d take the lead. He could hold her close and the warmth might finally reach his heart, and they'd dance to music he actually knows.

“I’m old, not dead, Steve. I can still dance. The music’s faster now so I might break a hip or two, but goodness, what a way to go,” she says and looks him up and down. Steve ducks his head with a flushed smile and Bucky winks.

“I regret leaving you to spend so much time with Buck,” he starts, but her face shifts, and Bucky leans forward, a hand in the middle of Steve’s back. There’s warmth there too, close to his heart, so so close, but it’s easily overrun by a small chilled breeze when she speaks.

“I’m sorry, I must have forgotten myself, oh- Steve!” She cries, again, and he understands.

“Yeah Peggy, it’s me.” He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t disguise the disheartening in his own voice.

“Oh, you’re here, how wonderful!” She doesn’t notice as she smiles, her tears flowing again. Steve can feel his own forming, but they’re not quite as happy as hers.

He’s not sure what to say, he knows he must look a little helpless, but the small weight of Bucky’s hand is almost an anchor for him. He repeats, “Well, you do owe me a dance. I figure it’s the least you could do for shooting at me.”

She just drinks him in, a little weary, but overjoyed. With that, Bucky decides they’ve had enough, Steve aware it’s for his sake, as much as hers.

“We’ll be back next week, Pegs. I’ll pick the music, play it loud enough for your hearing aids,” Bucky promises.

She squints her eyes playfully at the dig but squeezes his hands, and motions Steve down to kiss his cheek. Just as soft as he’d remembered it, and when she squeezes his hand too, it’s just as strong.

Bucky keeps his distance on the walk back to the car, though his hands are twitching again. Steve tries to think only of what just happened.

It’s momentous, seeing Peggy.

But not as much as he thought it would be.

He’s not sure why. She’d kissed him, he’d promised her a dance, then died, and she had moved on in a different direction than what he’d sometimes let himself wonder. It doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, it’s been 66 years, but still for Steve it’s not even a week and she suddenly had a husband, and children, and grandchildren. She'd loved someone else, and no doubt been loved in return. There's a little ache, of course, the same dull pain he feels when he thinks of Bucky's long hair or the idea that he's well into his 90's, that has nothing to do with anything except the passage of time. But he’s okay with it, he’s- 

At peace, he realises, his cheek on his fist as he looks out the car window. At peace that he is here, now, in a parking lot outside Peggy’s life. At peace with it not being some great love story of first love, to conquer everything. At peace something from the past, for the first time since he’d woken up cold with Bucky’s hand in his. A small and desperate thought, that he may have been pardoned from a life he no doubt would have loved but would have had to work hard to unconditionally enjoy, gets cut off by Bucky.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing. I guess it all just... happened,” he finishes lamely, but it’s the truth. Steve turns his head towards Bucky in hope to clarify his thoughts.

The peace he feels for Peggy’s life, alone and in relation to himself, he wishes he could feel for Bucky.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks for coming with me,” Steve says, hoping he can hear how much he truly means it. Bucky nods, but keeps his eyes forward, letting Steve look at him as much as he wants. It hurts, more than the dull ache, but not enough to make him stop.

“We’ll get Thai for dinner. You’ll like it,” Bucky decides as he starts the drives to, presumably home, Steve has barely any idea where they are. He never made it to Washington on the USO tours. “Radio?”

“Do I dare?”

“It can hit and miss. We’ll try some older channels before you brave today’s new music. Most of that is rubbish.”

It’s a far cry different from the brass bands he knows, and there’s none of the 60’s that Bucky played the night before, but some of the songs aren’t terrible. 

They’d be hard to dance to, though.

After a few songs, Steve reaches forward and twists the same dial Bucky used to turn it up. It's time for maybe later, and he looks at him expectantly. 

Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel under Steve's gaze, but he doesn't look away. “Buck,” he says in exasperation, hoping to avoid another silent fight.

Bucky sighs. "Peggy's the one who found me, after the train. She looked, and kept looking when other people thought I was dead or not worth it. When she got me out, she patched me up, spent a good portion of her life doing nothing more than making sure I got better, and when I was, helped me get back into the world, a house, a job, and always a Sunday roast. All the things I thought my Ma mighta done, she did, and better." 

"How did she find you?" Steve says when the drumming comes back, and the talking stops. "How did you-? Was a long way to fall, Buck, even I couldn't see right down."

Bucky looks resigned, but Steve's glad when he actually answers, for all that look has preceded in the past few days. "Well, is it really surprising, seeing as you're here? C'mon Stevie, I know you knew." Steve stays silent. This, he wants to come from Bucky himself, it does, but it clenches a jaw, pulsing, to do so. "Zola was trying to make another you, and whatever he did to me, it helped with the fall. I don't reckon you and me are that different these days. We can test it if you really want, I know you’re curious, but I’m not. I don’t want any part in it. You're not the only one who was pulled from the cold, in a body that wasn't your own and a time and life you don't exactly fit into, but you're probably the only one who'd understand why I don't want it ever brought up. I'm sorry if you do, but I don't want to talk about it."

He both does, and doesn’t understand that. Maybe it’s because Steve had come from nothing, had nothing, _was_ nothing, and the serum was a gift. Bucky never had those problems, his biggest problem was sure to be the burden of Steve. And that's no longer, to be strong, healthy, Steve doesn’t see it as a hardship. At 94, maybe he might think differently, and perhaps that’s it. 

The idea that Bucky is enhanced too, it’s not a shock to him, after all it was his first thought, when he woke up and Bucky was there with him, alive, looking no older than Steve had seen him last. All it’s done is confirm what Steve already knew, not explained more about Bucky’s life. If anything, Steve feels that it’s pulling a rift between them, one that might have started earlier than this morning, or a few days ago. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it, about Zola? You had a whole year to, never mentioned it once, sounds a bit like you lied to me about it, now.”

“Because I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t sign up, didn’t want it, would’ve done anything to change it. Even if it meant dying instead. I definitely did not want to be stuck as some chorus girl if the SSR found out. I just wanted out.” 

Steve frowns. “You could have gone home, Buck,” but Bucky shakes his head and sets his jaw. “I know it was already done, but you still could have gone back to Brooklyn. They offered, I know, I was there. I waved off half the 107th once they were clear from medical.” He still doesn’t answer, and Steve waits for him to unclench his jaw. “Well, then, tell me I’m wrong.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” Bucky says quietly.

It hits him as hard as the impact of the ice. And now, with the Valkyrie in his thoughts, he’s defensive, and not kind about it. “You should have, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Bucky says adamantly, still quietly, and not guarded at all. Bucky is some of Steve’s opposites today, and it’s making him feel the most alone he has since he woke up. 

He desperately wants to go back to Peggy, to the serenity of her, the only thing that's completely eased his mood today.

He almost asks, but he thinks of how the meeting finished, why Steve had to leave, a composure broken when they both realised how he was there, and- how Bucky was the one to help both Peggy and Steve through. _Bucky_. Who did actually calm his morning panic, just by being there, and so far hasn’t laughed when Steve asked how to use the washing machine and taught him how to get the thumb on his phone. Bucky, who hasn’t made him stand up in front of the public again and punch a fake Hitler, who has layered enough blankets at the end of Steve’s side of the bed and over couches, just in case. Bucky who lies next to him each night and breathes loud enough that Steve knows he’s there. 

If Bucky left him, in 1943, alone in a war he'd only entered to follow Bucky, who knows if he'd be here today. If he left then, he might be able to leave Steve today.

He’s not telling Steve much, but he’s still here, and that’s more than Steve ever had a right to pray for.

After a while of silence he offers quietly, "Think I'd be awful lonely if you weren't here."

Bucky's visibly surprised, but nods and swallows hard. 

They don't talk the rest of the afternoon, Steve ignores the concerned looks as he draws a picture of Peggy, as she is now.

“It’s good,” Bucky says once he’s finished. “She’d like it.”

He hands it to Bucky and says, “Now you have two pictures.”

Steve had meant it as another peace offering, a gift, but Bucky’s face falls into woe, his aura of sadness that had dimmed slightly floods back in. He goes to apologise, for what he's not sure, but Bucky walks away. A while later, Steve thinks it was apparently to find a frame, and he dutifully sets it up on the sideboard, next to the one Steve. But the concerned looks have stopped, and Bucky doesn't look at him at all.

It’s quiet again, until Bucky orders dinner.

Thai food consists of Bucky calling a restaurant, and it turns up not even half an hour later. He’s too shocked to eat for the first while once he notices the cost on the receipt, but Bucky just waves his hand, all signs of his earlier despondency gone, and says, “Inflation. That, and I make more than 40c an hour these days.” Steve’s not sure he wants to ask exactly how much, if Bucky doesn’t gawk at the idea of spending $30 on a few meals, but can’t deny that the convenience of the modern age is nice.

And Bucky’s right, he does like it.

Even Bucky eats slightly more than he would the meals he makes himself. It’s still not a lot, and Steve’s already had a fairly bad day so he just decides hell for leather, he’s going to push the issue. Besides, Bucky asked if Steve was alright, twice, on the car ride home and Steve will call him a filthy hypocrite if he’s not allowed to worry himself. 

“You don’t like it?”

“I do, it’s good,” he sighs, as if he’s already exhausted with the conversation. 

Steve’s pushed through battles more fatigued. “Then why aren’t you eating?”

“Not really friends with dinner,” is the answer, with no trace of the relaxed Thursday manner. 

“You said that about breakfast.”

“Guess I’d say the same about lunch then too,” Bucky half spits, glaring at his food like it’s the one calling him out.

“Not coffee,” Steve points out, Bucky drinks coffee like he breathes oxygen, and it’s in no way going to be enough for a normal human, let alone Bucky. But he pulls back on his tone because Bucky’s clearly nettled.

“Not coffee,” and Bucky smirks, clearly missing the point he’s making. Steve is uneasy with his erratic nature, with four answers with three completely opposite moods. “Look, it’s just, uncomfortable and I don’t want to do it. Half my life I’ve been controlled and told what to do, and now I’m told I’m allowed to say no, so I’m saying it. Clearly I don’t need all six meals the professionals harp on about, and certainly I don’t need you on my case about it, either. I get by just fine without all those friends.” It’s said with such finality, and Bucky gets up to grab a glass of water as if to prove his point. But the comment is double edged, and cuts so deep in Steve’s mind that he doesn’t think it will leave anytime soon.

Bucky ignores him, and the rest of his dinner, now Steve’s sure he’s doing it out of spite, instead puts on their next Disney movie and watches with an attention that Steve’s not seen before. Up until now, it’s slightly akin to a chore to focus on the TV, though he’s never whinged, or almost an excuse to still be near Steve.

The peace, the good mood, the almost normality of Bucky’s day is now long gone, not even a shadow for Steve to chase in his sneakers. Steve was off the minute he left the shower, fluctuating himself in mood, but the longer he thinks on the car trip, the more riled he is. Bucky said the only reason he stayed in the war was because of him, as an explanation, and not as a weapon to make him feel guilty, it was just a plain and simple fact. But it did all the same. Steve would have never wanted that, never asked him to stay, would have manhandled him home if he knew, if he ever even dream it would result in Bucky’s future being _this_. 

Even if Steve only found himself in the war himself because he didn’t want Bucky to go it alone. 

He's not watching the movie, just staring at vibrant colours as he sorts out his thoughts. He’s sat here for days, on the receiving end of incomplete truths and confusion somewhat caused by Bucky, but it's not that, he realises. He's frustrated at himself. He’s always fought for what he wanted, what was right, and what he wants is answers, a whole series of books to read that aren't about the world, but about Bucky.

They're having an argument, that's no small consolation, but Steve is about to make it into a full fight, even half for the sake of normality. He doesn't like disagreements with Bucky or saying things to hurt him, but they used to do it a lot and always came away better for it, so Steve prays for the same. He's never been good with his words, but he settles on the most important things he needs to say, and draws a deep breath.

Bucky beats him to it.

“The world not too crazy for you?” It’s quiet, and not what Steve is expecting. The concern, when he was so ready to fight, knocks him down, quick smart. 

“What do you mean?”

“Today, seeing Peggy, learning about the 60’s, though that was weird for everyone, seeing other people...”

Steve takes his time answering, because he’s spent a fair amount of time mentally berating Bucky for not talking to him, so he can’t be a hypocrite. While he thinks through what to say, so different from the speech he was only moments ago working on, he picks up the sketchbook and pencil, and draws the picture paused on the screen. Steve’s viewed the Disney movies so far in rapid progression, and he knows there’s years of difference and advancement between them, but seeing them one after another constantly surprises him in how much better, clearer, more colourful the films have gotten. That bit, he can handle so far. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind his hesitation, just sits there to the sound of soft scratches. Finally, Steve decides on, “It’s different, that’s for sure. Don’t suppose I have a choice, but I think I could get used to it.”

Bucky nods, as if that was the answer he was expecting, for all he said he didn’t know what Steve was thinking anymore. A small anger is back, a fire in his veins, in that Bucky seems to be doing better than he is that regard. “Good, because, uh… We’re running out of time.”

Steve’s stomach drops, but he keeps it light, continuing to draw as he asks, “Time for what?”

“I only managed to buy you a week, got some friends that can keep them distracted enough for a few more days but the Director’s been bugging me, that’s the phone calls, and soon S.H.I.E.L.D’s bound to come knocking. Love to run away to some island and just hide, but I know running's not really your style, hey Stevie?”

“What exactly do they want?” The burn of the anger is replaced by a chill, all need of his selfish conflict gone. His mind swirls with thoughts of if he’ll be kicked out, sent back to the army, or locked up for more tests now that they have new technology, he’s not too sure. He thinks that maybe, if any of those are the case, he’s in the future now so maybe he could reinvent himself. Maybe just this once he could enjoy running away. He quite liked the morning jog, if the shoes last, and Bucky suggested it, so he assumes, he hopes, he would come. They could run, and never stop running, S.H.I.E.L.D be damned. He would wear those ridiculous spikes and safety pins Tony sent, and Bucky could cut his hair, Steve would even put up with his moods and no one would-

“Nothing like that,” Bucky assures him quickly, and Steve starts, wondering if he spoke out loud. No, his pencil had just stopped. “They just want to help you settle in. You being dead and now not dead is a bit of paperwork, plus basic things like social security and bank accounts and what not. That, and they’ll want you to talk to someone, to cope with a new century.” 

Oh. That doesn’t sound too bad to Steve, he had wondered about the process of starting again and when it would be, but if he faces that he’ll have to have the question answered of how much of this new life he’ll have to do without Bucky.

Bucky fumbles with a cushion for a bit, then adds, “And then, I’ll give you a heads up, cause I know that I’d sure want one, of course there’s the whole plane situation.”

“What do you mean?” He asks. He’s resumed his sketching, still looking only between the TV screen and his sketchbook, because he already knows. He just didn’t think anyone else would know.

But Bucky looks up, and unlike the glances he only catches too late, this one seems to burn the traces of any cold out of him. “You’re a martyr of sorts, but a lot of academics like to debate whether or not it was sacrifice, or, you know, suicide.”

Steve opens his mouth, but snaps it shut and glowers at Bucky instead. In his defense, it’s been a long and trying day already, seeing Peggy.

Actually, it hasn’t. Peggy was easy. This- this is much harder.

He frowns down at the paper instead of Bucky, and opens his mouth again, maybe to say ‘that’s ridiculous’, maybe to say, 'why couldn’t it have been both’, but he’s stopped again before he decides. “You don’t have to talk to me about it. But whichever it was, they reckon there’s some sort of mental outcome from it, which I don't disagree with because you seem to be taking this too well, so I know you’re faking. Whatever you tell them, they’re not allowed to tell anyone else. Not even me. But it’s gonna happen, trust me, I’m the expert on trying to avoid these visits and there just isn’t a way out of them. But I just wanted to give you some time to adjust to being alive before you’re bombarded with actual living.”

Steve nods, looking at Bucky for the first time since the subject had been broached. “Yeah, alright,” like he’s got a choice. Then, just to make sure after this morning, he asks casually, “You’ll come too?”

“Of course, Stevie. Hold ya hand if you want it.” 

Steve moves to throw his own cushion at him. He’s tried to swat Bucky four times now. Maybe this is why Bucky’s hands twitch so much around him, Steve can imagine how much Bucky would want to hit him back. 

He lies awake awhile in bed, thinking of Peggy, the feel of her skin, somehow suddenly so old but still so delicate and warm. Hands that likely felt warm to Bucky too, when she found him in ice, and he decides next time he will ask for that moment alone with her, to thank her, for Bucky, when he can’t hear, even if she didn’t do it for Steve. Even if Bucky might not have wanted it. Because of Peggy, Bucky’s next to him right now, with his own warm hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand if you expected more actual Peggy content, but I didn't really want to focus on her too much, just her emotional impact on both of them. They've both already got so much going on so to make it any deep was getting so messy, and it's already double the amount of words of most of my chapters, so hopefully there were still good things in there!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group keeps speaking, the stories get worse and worse, piling up like the dead bodies they keep talking about. If anything, he’s going to get shell shock or whatever Bucky has called it from what these people are telling him, more than anything he went through up until a week ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trigger warnings for mentions of PTSD and cPTSD*

Steve is no longer so cold at night, barely notices it during the day, though it’s not something he thinks is too important to mention to Bucky, to cover him spending each night in Bucky’s bed.

Selfish, jerk, liar, though he skirts away from the few most damning names he can think of, they’re all words he applies to himself when he first wakes. He’s still itching for an argument, so he starts one with himself, one where he points out that he’s definitely sure Bucky didn’t leave at all while Steve was sleeping at S.H.I.E.L.D, and that’s why he’s been so tired the past few days, sleeping in till the sun’s been up for half a day already. This just makes them even. Bucky need never know that Steve can’t sleep later than first light, spends two hours or so just listening to him breathe, sometimes daring to watch, before heading to the lounge still an hour before he rises.

Today, he lies silently for half an hour upon waking before he can’t take it anymore.

“Buck,” Steve sighs, exasperated, concerned, questioning, all words he could use to describe it. He’s not sure why he’s fixating on words this morning, perhaps as he’s spent more time reading the last few days than ever, not even at school. More likely, he concludes, is that he’s dedicated as much time to seeing Bucky, viewing him, and now with a growing collection of images, it’s time to decipher them. He wasn’t there for Bucky’s past, didn’t watch it unfold in real time, so if he makes the words fit to what he knows, he can write his own history book on it to study. 

“Sorry.” It comes out more weary than Bucky probably intends it to. 

He’d mentioned after running that he doesn’t ever wake early, that Steve already knew, rather he lies awake the whole night, but this is the first Steve’s seen it. He didn’t believe it, assumed Bucky was pulling his leg, a joke about the future.

“Don’t be sorry, just tell me what’s wrong.” He’s met with silence, and he looks over to see if Bucky’s finally fallen asleep. He hasn’t, he's staring at the ceiling whilst chewing the inside of his cheek.

“There’s something I usually go to today,” he says eventually. “And I’d like you to come.”

That’s not exactly what Steve was expecting. 'Go to' means leave the house, that part sounds inviting, but without the words, Bucky’s demeanor is the opposite, so he’s not going to jump at the opportunity without further information.

“What is it?”

“It’s a VA group. I know it’s not been long, but I think you’d be okay for it.”

“You know I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s a support group for war veterans.”

Steve’s reaction is automatic, he can’t stop himself, and he’s not sure he would if he did. The internal argument with himself didn’t scratch, he’s still slightly itching for a fight. “You want to carry me in like a trophy? Give a speech?” Steve asks, his voice edged and accompanied with a black look even though Bucky can’t see in the dark. Maybe he can. He’s not sure because he doesn’t know, and now Bucky wants something more of him, yet gives nothing in return.

“No, it’s not actually about you. Well, it is, but not like that. I want you to go and listen to what other people have to say. They talk about their nightmares, or loud noises, or how they feel trying to talk to their kids. They all went to war, maybe a different war than we were in, but a war all the same. I know no one is ever really going to understand you, maybe except me, maybe not even then, but they’re a good lot and it does help.” There’s silence, Steve can hear the chewing begin again, until he continues, “Look, you don’t even have to talk, besides from your name, and I can do that for you, if you want. Some people go for months, a year even before they decide they want to share.”

When the meaning sets in, Steve's words come out hard. “I don’t have shell shock, Buck.”

“Well, I do, so you can cut the tone, wise guy,” Bucky’s own voice is clipped. The words sound unused, but they’re still out there, hanging between them. “Besides, it’s called something else now, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They worked out it’s not just your head, it’s not a lack of character or a weak mind. Your body, your brain, everything, actually changes, it reacts differently after a bad experience. No one’s gonna lock you up or execute you for it anymore. In fact, they’re more likely to think you’re crazy if you don’t get it.”

Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter as much to Steve, as Bucky’s admission does. It’s the first, true thing, Bucky’s said of his own past and who he is today, but all Steve wants him to do is take it back, to say it’s a lie. 

When he looks across to what he can see of Bucky’s face in the slowly dawning light, lips pressed tight and jaw set, he’s met with a face he knows all too well. That’s a ‘eat ya goddam soup, sorry Ms Rogers, before I shove it down ya goddam throat, sorry again Ms Rogers but he ain’t eat for 2 days from fever and his bones are gonna poke my own eyes out then who’ll wanna marry me‘ look that he’s never won against in the past. He’ll still try though.

“If it’s kept you up part the night all nerves, then maybe we shouldn’t,” Steve says quietly. He wants nothing to do with war or it’s fatigue right now, and this could be his peaceful and tactful retreat if he, rather shamefully, puts it back on Bucky.

“It’s just, I dunno. It’s gonna be hard to come by people who understand you, especially with almost 70 years difference now, and I know I don’t like explaining myself, so it’s nice to be around people who just get that bit of you. That, and they’re a whole lot less clinical than the S.H.I.E.L.D shrinks, might ease you into the situation a bit more than I was ever allowed.” 

Somehow, he wants to go even less than he did before.

He takes his own time to think. Bucky is different, that’s for sure, but not like the soldiers he’d seen just come off the front. The sleep maybe, but no trembling, no stares, still seemed to see and hear alright, even if he did look at Steve with an odd expression every now and then. Bucky would have plenty of reason to be war fatigued, he’d been in Europe for longer than Steve, and saw men from his infantry die in ways Steve never did, then had no more than a few shots of whiskey before he’d followed Steve after Krausberg. But surely, that-, he hadn't seen in the entire year with the Commandos, and the war, it was all _66 years ago_ for Bucky.

But he said he did. 

Steve doesn’t want to see that in Bucky, doesn't want him to feel what the war fatigued soldiers screamed about at night, and maybe it’s because of the group that he hasn’t seen the worst of it yet.

In the sake of staving off the signs, and perhaps a little selfishly, the sake of peace, Steve concedes, “Alright.” They've argued more over less important things, but maybe he’ll find what he found with Peggy yesterday for Bucky. Even further, maybe he’ll get some stories of Bucky’s life, even if they’re meant for other people. Or, at the very least help get rid of the circles under his eyes that coloured themselves overnight, and stop the chewing. He's never seen it before, not in anyone, but he knows that it's not good, no matter what it means. Maybe it is a type of shell shock. 

“There’s someone there I promise you’ll like.”

Steve just nods, and lies there, unsure what else to do. A few minutes later, it sinks in that he can still hear the noise. “What else,” he sighs.

“I-,” and he seems to prepare himself. “I don’t really want you to leave the house either. Not somewhere as public as this.” 

This seems like a different sort of worry of Bucky’s. Not a ‘Steve’s going to leave’, or ‘Steve’s going to break’, but something else. Something else that is causing the chewing, and causing it to get worse. If he’s hungry, Steve wishes he would eat, but he’s not sure it's even that. 

“You worried I’m going to run away?” He’s met with silence, so he tries another. “You didn’t seem worried yesterday,” Steve tries again.

“That was Peggy, you know her. And it's a private property, drive straight into the parking lot, not many people. This, this is in a community hall, with people coming and going, people you don't know, beside a park, with a shared parking lot…” he trails off. “It just- it only takes a second. It does,” he insists when Steve makes a small noise. “With the internet, it’s only a second. For someone to know, to try something, for something to happen.”

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Bucky just chew, chew, chews. “Well, Phil will be there. I’m sure he could handle anything that comes up.”

Bucky rolls his head to the side, looking at Steve for the first time. “I- he wasn’t going to be. I didn’t want you to feel coddled, or trapped.”

A wave of guilt washes through him, compounding on the slight residues from yesterday. This at least seems to be an effort Bucky was going to make, whereas Steve has spent a fair portion of his few days being angry at himself and Bucky, and making it worse by not saying anything. They’re a balanced pair- no, Bucky’s always done his part for Steve, and more, even when Steve was too sick or helpless to give back, though Bucky would state adamantly that wasn’t true. The only time he felt almost equal, not inferior, was in the Commandos, even though he technically outranked Bucky. Technically, but still not truthfully, this time he kept it to himself because he knows Bucky would have kicked a fuss if he ever knew that’s what Steve thought. 

But they’re not in Brooklyn, nor Europe. They’re in the future, a future Bucky has lived and wants Steve to live. And Steve doesn’t want to keep living it like this, in the unknown, with an off-kilted Bucky, or worse, without Bucky at all. He offers, “Would it make you feel better if he was?”

The answer isn’t entirely convincing. “Yeah.”

“Then it’s fine.”

Bucky keeps staring at the ceiling, long enough for the sun to fully bask the room in gold. The only thing that doesn’t seem to glow is Bucky, the contrast makes him look more like a shadow. When Steve makes a move to get out of bed, he says quietly, “Thanks.”

Steve shrugs, like it’s nothing. Really, it is nothing.

Steve was excited yesterday, to go see Peggy, but this is the complete opposite. Not only does he not want to go and talk about war, or death, or anything related after a few semi peaceful days of only having to think of Disney and steak, but this new sort of nervous of Bucky’s is making Steve uneasy with leaving the house too. Like there’s something wrong it, that the future is a terrible place, and Bucky’s bare home is to be his new sanctuary, a safe haven he's slowly starting to resent.

He’s not entirely sure that there’s anything Phil, or a few other agents, could do that Steve couldn’t, but what they seemingly can do is make Bucky a little less anxious, so he allows it. He pushes away the hurt that it’s not something he can do for Bucky, not even by saying yes to the meeting that is possibly causing this in the first place. 

“What time does it start?”

“Not till 2.”

“Well, get some sleep before then,” he says and climbs out of his own side. He heads downstairs, and pretends to read, until he’s sure Bucky is asleep, listening until his breaths slow, are deep enough for half an hour, then he creeps into the study and pours over the war books he saw on the first day.

He lets Bucky sleep until an hour before, forgoing their run or boxing. It's almost a normal night's sleep for a regular person, but Bucky might need a few more based on what Steve's seen. Quite importantly, for Steve, it’s enough to know basic dates and motives for the wars he missed. 

There’s a small and secret hope that Bucky will take an extra few hours when they get home as Steve feels the inherent need to sketch to quiet himself, after the meeting, however long that takes. Steve knows he shouldn’t, doesn’t most of the time, but when he’s like this, he feels self conscious about translating his mind to paper when Bucky’s awake. 

He's not going to talk, he's already decided. There's nothing to talk about, and he's never been good with words anyways. He's there only to appease Bucky, to support him, and to find out whatever he can about Bucky's shell shock and how to cure it.

It’s an odd morning, almost the tense of the food fight the night before. Bucky accepts Steve’s smoothie with tight lips and silence, then tips half of it away when Steve is finished with his own. Steve ignores it, not because Bucky asked him to, more so that he’s too preoccupied with his own ever growing nerves.

This is not Peggy, but again he hopes whatever it is will soothe Bucky like going to visit Peggy did for the both of them. He's on edge, not even sure why, but he knows that if Bucky’s calm, he’s calm, the world is right. 

Not that Bucky’s truly been calm since Steve’s first waking at S.H.I.E.L.D.

They drive through the city with the windows down, in a manner that almost feels as if Steve is being rewarded for saying yes. He feels like a child with both arms folded on the car’s edge and chin on his forearms as he takes it in, under a cap and through sunglasses. The sights, the buildings, the people, they all make his eyes blur and his mind swim. Bucky was right about that, he thinks a little begrudgingly, but as long as he doesn’t have to tell his life story within the next few hours, he should be able to make it through. When they park, another car pulls up beside them, and Steve has a small moment of panic before he remembers he told Bucky it was okay to be followed. The team, people he’s not seen, are dressed in what he accepts as normal clothes instead of their black suits, so there’s that slight comfort.

He starts a little when one walks in with them, but Bucky says, “Charlie’s actually ex-military, so it’s okay.”

Bucky doesn’t speak throughout the meeting, and true to his word, he doesn’t make Steve either. No one looks at him twice, except to nod in acknowledgement, allowing Steve to study them instead. He doesn’t spend too long on any one person, just usually while they speak, but he notices a few of them sit like Bucky, tense and coiled, their eyes darting, sometimes accompanied with the same half smiles that fool no one, least of all him. 

When they share, Steve wants to scream at them to shut up. It’s downright awful, and Steve feels like a fraud, he never saw anything close to what these people saw. While Bucky said he didn’t have to talk, he thinks of what he would say if he did. 

_“Shrapnel tore through your stomach and you can’t have kids? I healed right up from that.”_

_“Trapped under a tank? I wouldn’t know. Probably just rolled it off if it ever happened to me.”_

_“Loud noises don’t scare me. Spent too long not hearing a goddam thing so now I don’t take any sound for granted.”_

_“Everyone I know is dead too. Not just my unit, but actually everyone.”_

He can’t relate, but the worst part is he knows Bucky thinks he should.

It’s not even that Steve’s conceited, thinks he’s Captain America, all powerful. He knows weakness, for all he’d never admit it. He knows what it’s like, to not have strength, to feel helpless, to try and fit into a world that will never accept him. His entire life has been one end of the spectrum to the other, the impossible distance between his sickness and the serum, from one point in time between the world he once knew and the one he’s been plonked back into and expected to live. 

He’ll just never know what these people went through, and they’ll never know him. No one will, except maybe Bucky. Even then, like Bucky himself said, he’s not sure he can say the same back. 

The group keeps speaking, the stories get worse and worse, piling up like the dead bodies they keep talking about. If anything, he’s going to get shell shock or whatever Bucky has called it from what these people are telling him, more than anything he went through up until a week ago.

Steve is in a decidedly bad mood when the session wraps up. Though he’s the one who’s had the full night sleep, he’s tired, tired in a different way perhaps, and he’s not got any energy to try and hide his surliness. From Bucky’s scowl, he can tell, and he’s not happy about it. He hasn’t offered more than a small smile to anyone, so Steve’s hoping whoever he wanted him to meet hasn’t shown, and they can do this another day. Or never. His heart drops a little after they pack up the chairs and Bucky heads to the front, to the man who was leading the group and says, “You got a minute?”

“Got more than a few, but not as many as you apparently. Jeez, you getting younger each time I see you or is my eyesight going?” The man’s certainly not greying or wrinkling, but Steve thinks he at least understands the reference, the second time around.

“Does tend to happen with old age,” Bucky jokes back, and nods his head to Steve.

“Yeah, I saw. I’m not that blind yet.” He walks over to where Bucky’s left him, in his awkward attitude. “So you’re Steve?” He reaches out and shakes Steve’s hand, firm and sure. “Sam Wilson. Welcome to the 21st Century. I’m happy for you. For you both,” he says, but he’s looking at Bucky.

“Just sorry it’s not universal. You know I would, if I could.”

“Nah, I know you would. But it’s unrealistic, and that’s life. Except, apparently, for you.” They sit at on a few left over chairs in the corner, and Sam makes them each a cup of coffee from the small table set for the group’s participants.

It’s not good, it’s nothing like the fancy stuff Bucky makes each morning, which he assures Steve is nowhere near as even more fancy the stuff you can buy out, but in a way, Steve likes this more. It reminds him of-

“Yeah, for all that modern day America can make a good cup of Joe, sometimes all you need is the burnt shit you’d chug a freezing morning while on the front. Can’t say I miss rations, though.”

“You served?” Steve winces, it makes him sound like an idiot. It should be obvious, they’re at a Veterans group, and this is two bad first impressions he’s making to someone who’s clearly important to Bucky. Bucky, who's already looking slightly less tense, his hands less tight, a soft face that looks like it could smile at some point today.

Steve is far from an idiot, he knows this. He’s just never been the best at talking to people in situations he was comfortable in, let alone _this._ Steve struggles to comprehend the enormity of what he’s feeling, what this is, but Sam doesn’t notice, just continues.

“Yeah, two tours, and then some,” and Steve’s eyebrows fly up.

He says, before he can stop himself, “They taking teenagers these days?” Up close, Sam looks even younger than he’d first thought, maybe even younger than Steve. But war steals innocence, life and age, that doesn’t change with time.

Sam chuckles. “Nope, still have to be 18. From what I’ve heard, lying on enlistments was more something you guys did back in the good old days, Bucky calls them. Or was that just you?”

Steve will give him that, and tips his head in acknowledgement. “Why’d you leave?”

“Lost my best friend,” and Steve’s whole world vacuums in. He definitely does not want to be having this conversation. Not today, not ever. “We were Pararescue, just a routine night, but an RPG knocked his dumb ass out of the sky. Nothing I could do,” Sam shrugs, but it doesn’t dismiss his loss. “Felt like I was just up there to watch, you know?”

Steve does know, he knows that feeling all too well, it’s all consuming. For three days, a whole three days he wished it was him instead, that he would do anything to make it end, and did.

But Bucky’s sitting _right there,_ and clearly Sam’s friend is not.

Disgust, at least, is an emotion he can single out, identify, describe, from the swirling mess burning a hole in his heart. 

Sam shrugs again, and gives him a smile. It’s warm, like he knows, that he understands, and somehow that makes Steve feel even worse. “After that, felt like there wasn’t anything worth fighting for, so I got out. Now I do this, instead.”

“The VA?” 

“They actually had it in our day,” Bucky explains. “Wasn’t much like it applied to either of us at the time. And it doesn’t feel as much as they do now, passed the G.I Bill in 44’ actually that helped a bit more for those who did make it home.”

“And even this doesn’t sometimes feel like enough,” Sam carries on, “but what it’s lacking it’s my job to encourage people to take a sort of personal responsibility for. We go through hell over there, doesn’t matter what exactly happens but we all go through a version of it. At the end of the day, back here’s where we wanna live our life. So we gotta live it, sometimes meaning we fight harder than we ever did over there,” Sam says with another shrug. “How about you? How’re you settling in?”

“It’s,” and Steve again struggles to describe what he wants to say, struggles with the idea that he might want to open up to this man, when he didn’t want to talk at all not even ten minutes ago. He thinks through all the words he's read, he's compiled, even how he’d draw it. “Different,” he finally settles on.

Bucky makes a small noise into his coffee. 

“Are you finding things you like? Dislike?”

“Honestly, still just trying to catch up. Mostly, things seem to have improved, so I can’t really complain too much. There's things I'm not missing from the 40’s, so I guess there’s that.”

“It is something, and it’s more than you’re saying it is, or probably think it is. It is a lot, Steve. But I don’t think you want that talk from me. Not right now, anyway. You got a phone?” When Steve nods, he says, “Hand it over, I’ll add my number. Text or call, doesn’t bother me.”

Steve finds he likes Sam, as much as he can in his foul mood. He’s easy to talk to, and doesn’t care if Steve doesn’t say anything back. He’s yet to slip in something Steve doesn’t understand, and somehow carries an entire conversation without mentioning the future or the past. It’s just talk. It’s more than that, too, he’s laid-back and funny, in a way that Bucky isn’t, but apparently likes, because he’s smiling almost more than Steve’s seen him the past few days combined. The thought hurts, he realises, Bucky doesn’t smile like that around Steve. He tries, but there’s an underlying hindrance, it’s still so-, he’s going to find a thesaurus when he gets back to the house, or ask Bucky to translate sad into as many languages as he knows, because he’s getting as sick of the word as he is the feeling from Bucky.

Phil calms Bucky, Sam makes Bucky happy, even Peggy relaxes him, but Steve-, Steve just brings him despair, is the only thing he takes away from the meeting.

That, and Sam's number. 

“Tony’ll be pissed you’re making friends with people who aren’t him,” Bucky says as they pull out of the parking lot.

“That’s not my fault. I’m sure he knows where you live. I got no clue where he does.”

“New York. You can’t miss it, actually,” Bucky laughs, then sighs at Steve’s expression. “I’m not kidding, it’s ostentatious and a little ugly. Think the Empire State, but with Stark in glowing letters.”

Tony is all he hears about, and he's tired of it. He no longer cares to hear about someone he doesn't know, not when there's someone he thinks he should know but doesn't sitting right beside him. “Does Sam know? About you?”

“Yeah, Sam’s a friend.” The words hurt again. He’s not sure Bucky means them too, but they settle on Steve further that he’s also Bucky’s friend, but Sam seems to make Bucky talk and smile and laugh in a way that Steve has yet to. And Sam doesn’t look put off by the way Bucky is, not like Steve, so maybe Sam knows why.

And Steve doesn’t.

As far as friends go, there’s more of Steve in Bucky’s house than anyone else, even Bucky’s family. No Tony, no Tasha, no Sam, that he can see. Steve and Bucky only ever needed each other, that was never an issue, but for the past 66 years Bucky hasn’t had him, and the idea makes Steve lonely to the point of being ill just thinking about it, makes him feel as grey as Bucky looks.

So the word friend doesn’t really clear things up for Steve.

“Just a VA friend, or..?”

“We run together a few times a week, sometimes hiking on weekends. Camping, if our schedules line up. If they don’t, just drinks,” Bucky says, proving himself.

“Can’t get drunk,” Steve says, but makes a pained noise when it sinks in how he knows that. Bucky shoots him a questioning glance, but Steve turns his eyes back to the road. “What do you tell other people?”

“A version of it. Technically, a lot of it’s classified. I wasn’t exactly glorified like you were, for good reason, so it’s better for everyone to just not wildly broadcast it. Obviously, there’s people who I know well enough that will notice the whole not aging thing, Sam and Tony, I don’t have to lie, and people I work with know the extras, but yeah, I’m not singing from the rooftop or anything.” 

“Why not?

“Why not what?”

“Why weren’t you glorified? Hell Bucky, the exact same thing happened to you, except that you didn’t sign up for it, not the serum bit, not the prisoner of war part. But you did the same as I did, in the Commandos. I was just a poster boy for it.”

“It’s not like that, Stevie.”

“Not like what? No, it’s ridiculous.”

“Just drop it, Stevie. Please.” Bucky’s voice is rough, but it’s desperate, pleading. 

Of all the things he heard today, from his own thoughts, to the talks of war, even Sam's best friend, this is what breaks his heart the most. Steve huffs, but he’s not going to, not like yesterday. He’s sick of it, everything Bucky is doing is vexing him, especially now when he speaks over Steve's thoughts. "What was with you, back there?"

"Nothing's wrong with me, I told you to stop asking."

"I'm just checking you're alright, is all," Bucky says, gently, and a little confused. 

"Why is it that you can ask questions and I can’t? What," he almost snaps at Bucky's bewildered look, "it’s true, I've tried to ask things multiple times and you shut me down for it."

"This isn’t about me, it’s about you. I'm not the one who's been dropped into this world, Stevie, I was already living in it."

"Why did you drop me in it?" He asks, bitterly, and again, he’s disgusted at himself and his words. He’s not sure if he actually means them or not, he just knows they would get a reaction. They did, and it’s not the one he wants. There's a switch in Bucky when he says it, a floodgate, and he's reminded of that first day, when Bucky broke down in tears, and he doesn't want to see or experience that again. Steve looks out the window, but he can still feel the emotion, so he changes the subject. “I felt like a liar, in there,” he admits.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, I just, feel like I never saw any of that. Didn’t go through the hell they did, didn’t see what you first saw, then the Commandos was much more contained than their front lines.” 

“It’s like Sam said. We all go through hell, maybe in different ways, but it doesn’t matter, it’s still hell. But here, home, it shouldn’t have to be.” 

Steve knows what his hell is, and knows Bucky is aware because he there for part of Steve’s and seems caught up on the three days he missed. But Steve doesn’t know Bucky’s, no more than a dark dungeon and cool table, and a falling figure lost in white of the Alps.

Bucky looks at him again, must notice his strained hand around the seat belt and mutters, “Maybe it was too soon.”

“What?” Again, Steve’s voice is edged.

“It's an observation, not a judgement, Stevie. Took me 50 or so years to come round to the idea, not that time means much to me.”

“I don’t have shell shock, Bucky,” he repeats again.

“There’s such thing as denial, you know, you've always had a chronic case of that, no matter that the doctors didn't list it. And you don’t need to keep saying it like it’s a bad thing, alright?” 

In that instance, Steve finds out that for all he’s rearing for a battle, he doesn’t want to start an argument now that it’s turned on him. If they were talking about Bucky’s eating, or his mood, Steve would be all for it, but right now, he’s not going to push because he's somewhat sure he'd lose.

He still feels like a liar, and now he feels like a coward because he keeps his head firmly turned to watch out the window instead of talking more. Bucky doesn’t mind, or if he does, he doesn’t show.

“You read about the Civil Rights Movement?” Bucky asks lightly, a few minutes later. Steve thinks he recognises the street from visiting Peggy, but moments later he’s lost again.

His disorientation further vexes him, but Bucky seems to be past their tiff. In fact, from the start, Bucky was never looking like he was as bad tempered as Steve. He keeps himself calm as he replies, “Yeah, some. I’m still only on the Americas though.”

“Mmmm,” Bucky muses. “From what I know, it’s fairly similar everywhere. Race, sexual orientation, gender, it’s all come a long way. Didn’t bother mentioning Sam cuz I knew you only ever cared about what was on the inside, anyway.”

“Yeah, should have been that way from the start. It’s good.”

“Not always,” Bucky disagrees, and Steve frowns. “Looks good on paper, that’s for sure, but not everyone agrees. And even if they say they agree, they don’t do anything to show it, or about it, so the systems don’t change, people still get hurt or oppressed by it. And then there are some who just downright kick up a stink about it, saying that they’re better because they’re white or straight, or they get to decide what a woman can do just because they’re a man.” 

“That’s…” and Steve struggles for the word.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, this time, and they fall back into silence, leaving Steve to think back on the meeting.

Bucky said having shell shock isn't a bad thing, but all Steve has seen from it is that it is bad, terrible, awful, and he's not going to accept anything else. What he's lived with, the past few days, is that having shell shock means sleeping too much or not enough, not eating, not relaxing, not speaking, being annoying, and unconsciously making your house guest and best friend feel constantly frustrated. None of that sounds good, none of that _feels_ good to Steve, and none of this happened to him in the year they spent together in the Commandos, so Steve is irritated that he doesn't know why it's hitting so hard now.

And, if the future's so good, they should have cured it by now. There's been enough wars.

He hates the future, he decides firmly. He'd quite like to go back now, he thinks to whoever's listening. Back to 1939, he'd make Bucky march to the doctors before the war even started and fake bad lungs, Steve could back his asthma history, then the Army would never take either of them. They could hide away in their dingy apartment, Bucky working on the docks and Steve sending in his sketches to whatever newspaper would take them until they both died, long before 2011.

It's a ridiculous thought, a dream, but it helps to centre him a little further. Even though the meeting is the only they’ve done that day, Steve feels exhausted. If he does, Bucky must surely feel it, but he does look better for the visit, his hair blowing a little in the wind. Steve’s momentarily glad he said yes, his anger squashed, if only for this single moment. He tries to commit the look to memory for when it disappears the second they get home and Bucky finds himself only with Steve and sadness. To sketch if Bucky sleeps, or simply just to remember.

He’s too tired to fight anymore, so takes to watching the roads again. “What the hell is that?”

Bucky follows his eyeline and grins a little. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

They enter, with caps down and sunglasses on, and Bucky pays with a piece of plastic that he says holds every single cent of money that he has, and Steve’s sure he’s lying. 

Steve does it on purpose, one of the things Bucky tells him is sure to be a lie sooner or later, a joke at his expense, and narrows his eyes a little, silently daring Bucky to order one of everything to test the plastic. 

He does, rather amused by Steve’s goad and his reaction when it works, and Steve tries his best to persuade Bucky into trying his share of them all. It works some, and Bucky does seem in a better mood, not quite but almost a Thursday mood, and it puts Steve at ease too. Their squabble somewhat behind them, he’s also much more willing to discuss the 70’s with Steve when he adds in his fun facts during dinner, and doesn’t look anything other than pleased when Steve hands him a drawing of Sam.

When Bucky’s asleep, he opens the message that he’s ignored since they’d gotten home. He’d taken Sam up on his offer, when Bucky went to change into more comfortable clothes, and asked what it was that Bucky called the shell shock. Sam didn’t ask any questions in his reply, or even say anything, just sent some messages that opened into more information, small electronic pamphlets on ‘PTSD’. Steve doesn’t think much of it applies to him, even if these doctors say sometimes it takes a while for the symptoms to show, he doesn't have shell shock and he means it, but when he opens the last one, that’s different in that it says CPTSD, he’s a little overwhelmed. Not in application to himself, but to Bucky.

The future suddenly makes sense now, in just a few short pages. Everything, everything he’d been angry at Bucky for doing and not doing, saying and not saying, for being Bucky yet a different Bucky from the one Steve knows, and thinks he deserves, is suddenly a lot clearer to him. 

He thinks he finally understands.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want to. He wants to take it all back, not know it existed, not _have_ it exist in the first place.

He rereads the words Sam sent him to until they all but lose their meaning, as if he expects them to change anything, will tell him what he needs to know, answer the questions that multiply with each review.

Questions that are making his head pound, and his eyes water, about what Zola or the guards did, what happened in Krausberg, what exactly happened that’s still made him unsettled more than half a century later. How long did Bucky wait, endure, for Steve, or anyone, in the cell, or Peggy in the cold, while feeling a greater sense of helpless and hopeless than Steve does now, could ever. What can Steve do for him when he couldn't even do enough by getting him out of the factory, how can he be like Sam, how can he help Bucky live easier in this life, take away whatever he's feeling. And more quietly, what can Steve do to stop his own, bad, terrible thoughts about it, and stop feeling so frustrated when Bucky is-.

“What’s you doing,” Bucky mumbles into the dark, as Steve rolls out of bed. 

He whispers, “Water,” hoping Bucky doesn't catch the lie. He had wanted to go to the study, to see if Bucky has any books on it, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t but Steve just needs to confirm, to think he’s done _anything_ to try. Caught out, Bucky would know if he didn’t, he lightfoots it downstairs to go grab a glass, not drinking for fear it will come back up, though his head hurts as if he hasn't had enough water for a life time, and heads back to bed.

He’s somehow claustrophobic in this expansive room, this large bed, and for all he can sees Bucky’s silhouette beside him, his best friend is much more than a foot away from him. If this is how he is just reading it, he can’t fathom what Bucky must surely feel. When he’s asleep again, Steve checks the study, but like he knew, there’s nothing useful for him. Instead, he pulls out his phone again, curled up in Bucky’s reading chair, and stares at the screen until it goes black. He can’t bring himself to get in the bed, the thought makes him gasp for air and push down bile, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from it and it’s occupant as possible instead.

Steve falls asleep in the corner of the room, curled in on himself, feeling, for the first time, truly alone in this future.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why didn’t you get married?”
> 
> “Never wanted anyone.”
> 
> “Surely someone.”
> 
> “Never found anyone,” Bucky corrects, his face hard.
> 
> "Not for 66 years?" Bucky jerks his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Trigger warnings for brief talks of past torture/disordered eating patterns*
> 
> Need more huggles.

Steve only managed a few hours sleep in the chair, enough that he can function on, but he still wakes early. He knows there’s nothing in the study that can help him, and in the morning light he’s not brave enough to face his phone again, so he pads downstairs and sets himself up on the lounge seat, a blanket over his bent knees out of pure habit. The cold is gone, he’s a worried that it has started to creep back after last night, but all of the blankets in the house are absurdly soft, and instantly comforting.

Bucky promised to take him hiking today, and this type of leave the house wasn’t furnished with any chewing, or worry, so he assumes nature to be calming, or exercise beneficial, like the papers said. No matter which, Steve hopes it won’t be until late morning, so Bucky can sleep in to catch up on the previous night’s missed sleep.

There’s nothing for Steve to do besides stare blankly at the wall and stave off tears, or continue with his usual routine until Bucky wakes, so he goes back to learning about the 80’s while listening to the sounds of the decade, from his phone of all places. He's made it no further than Ronald Reagan's inauguration when he notices a woman standing in the hallway.

She’s simply staring at him. Somehow, Steve is both calmed and cautious at her presence at the same time. He makes no move, and neither does she, just watches him curiously.

Then, she smiles.

It’s beautiful, _she’s_ beautiful, even without the smile, but in a way that Steve thinks could hurt him. Or, from Bucky’s line of work, kill him. But yes, every essence of her is beautiful, even the air around her dazzles him, outshined only by shoulder length hair almost as bright red as her lips. Her eyes are lined dark, and it’s a stark contrast to her pale skin and white sundress. No shoulders, Steve almost looks away, but his history books and their pictures tell him it’s not considered indecent to dress like that anymore.

“The door was unlocked,” she explains, a light breezy voice that speaks American words, but he’s not sure their truth. She slips off her shoes, yet makes no further move towards him. 

“Bucky?” Steve calls out tentatively, knowing that he’ll be heard, even in Bucky’s dreams. 

It’s not in his first instinct to be guarded around her, and a part of it is that Steve is aware that there is still a constant watch of agents outside. She couldn't have made it inside if she wasn’t meant to be here. That, and she’s still smiling as she places her shoes to the side in a somewhat specific spot, her head cocked at Steve and his book.

Bucky pads down the stairs, clearly waking, and freezes still at the sight of the woman, his foot midair between steps. Steve stiffens at the response, ready to launch himself between them, but Bucky’s face falls into a mix of devastation and petulance. They seem to share an entire conversation before he reaches the bottom of the steps, though their faces don't move and Steve hears only the quiet sounds of a suburban morning.

“Coulda knocked,” Bucky grumbles.

“I did message ahead,” she says, kindly, but not unlike she’s pointing out the obvious. 

“Director said not till Monday.” 

“It’s not about that.” Then, softly, as if she thinks Steve won’t hear, she breathes, “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

Bucky's jaw clenches once, twice, then must decide to stay taut, and he starts breathing heavily through his nose.

“Steve, Natasha,” he says curtly, gestures sharp. If Steve’s not mistaken, for the little he knows about Bucky’s life, this might be the Tasha he heard a few days ago.

She smiles again in his direction, but Bucky seems less than happy to see her so Steve can’t offer up more than his own tight lips in return.

“Give us a minute, Stevie.” He's slow to move, only marking his book, when Bucky hurries, “No, no, we’ll go upstairs.”

Steve can barely track the footsteps, not to the bedroom, but to the study. The conversation is as imperceptible as their steps, and marred by the chimes of the 80’s, which he quickly shuts off. He’s not even had a chance to get off the couch to creep closer before they both come back downstairs.

Bucky heads to the coffee machine, ignoring Steve's questioning gaze, instead leans his back against the counter, his arms cross loosely so his hands hug his elbows. His jaw is less tense, if anything he seems to be chewing on the inside of his mouth again, but his face is inscrutable. Steve sits a little straighter when he realises it’s a different sort of expressionless than Natasha was wearing in their first silent conversation. This reaches his eyes, Steve realises with an instant sick in his stomach and mouth, in a thousand yard stare.

Natasha is also looking at him with concern.

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice either of them, not even when Steve gets up to stand by the island.

“Bucky?” Steve asks gently, though he’s slightly enraged. Whoever she is, whatever this woman, Natasha, has talked to Bucky about, has brought this on. The chewing, he knows, he hates, but the stare, he-. Steve needs it to stop. “Buck?” He tries again, more demanding, and at that moment the coffee machine makes a little whine, and Bucky snaps straight.

As if he didn’t notice his vacancy in his own body, he turns to Steve to say, “I’ve got to do a bit of work. You alright here?”

“Yeah,” although he's not. Natasha nods.

Bucky makes them all coffees, sipping his as he exits the room, eyes dimming a little as he does. 

“Play nice,” he warns on his way out, but there's almost nothing to his voice.

“I’m always nice,” he replies, almost reflexively, not exactly sure it’s even meant for him.

“I was talking to Tasha,” Bucky confirms, looking at her pointedly before heading up the stairs. She just smiles again.

“Biscuit, Steve?” She asks as she rummages through the cupboards with ease, obviously comfortable. Pulling out a package he’s not yet seen, she says, “Have you tried these yet?” He shakes his head, so she explains, “Guilty pleasure,” and her eyes light up, widening dramatically. She takes a delicate bite, and leans forward on the island, chewing, studying him.

“So, you’re Steve. Nice to meet you, officially.”

He’s not sure he likes her, for all she might be beautiful. Her words seem to be carefully crafted, almost scripted, but they’re also cryptic. More so than Bucky’s. 

“I was there, when they got you out.”

Bucky’s not told him the specifics of how it happened, Steve isn’t sure he actually cares, but he knows that Bucky had a sort of power over the situation. So she must either be important to Bucky, or work for S.H.I.E.L.D. Or both. 

“We work together,” she continues, and on top of the almost deadly grace she’s carrying herself around with, how she managed to get in the house without Steve even hearing the door, he’s now slightly worried that she can read his mind. 

She and Bucky seemed to say more to each than Bucky had to Steve, down a short staircase, and Bucky looks at him weirdly at times, so there's a small panic that Bucky too might be able to read his thoughts. Weird things might have happened in the future, heck, weird things happened in his time. And Bucky did get experimented on-. 

But Bucky said he didn't know what Steve was thinking. 

He's aware he’s on a slight tangent, a little sorer for a rough sleep, so he grapples for the anger he had when she returned with an _actual_ shell shocked Bucky. 

It grounds him enough to realise that all the answers were there already. Bucky had said Tasha fell asleep, the verbal conversation at the bottom of the stairs, her being allowed in. Now Steve is worried that she’s put some sort of spell on him, he won’t be able to tell top from bottom, or maybe he’ll end up distant like Bucky.

On the other hand, he rationalises as he grasps at his temper again, desperate, she’s already offered up two pieces without him having to ask. Knowledge is hard to come by, from people, no, just from Bucky, so while she’s talking, he’s going to listen, to learn, hopefully more important information than the book he was just reading.

“At S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“Mostly.”

It takes all he has to internalise the groan, swallowing his immediate regret. Like Bucky, talking doesn’t actually mean talking. It just means infuriating words with little meaning. Still, he persists. “How does ‘mostly’ work?”

“Technically, yes, I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. But often, I am required to not work for S.H.I.E.L.D, in order to work for S.H.I.E.L.D.” That, Steve thinks he can understand, but she explains anyway, “What do you know about Tony Stark?”

And, because she’s just admitted to espionage, and Steve’s not sure what she knows about Tony Stark, he replies with his own ambiguous reply. “Probably not as much as I knew about his father.”

She laughs, and Steve narrows his eyes a little, to determine if the breathless rasp behind it means she’s faking, or genuine. “Well, for instance, I was his private security for a while.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D does that sort of thing?”

“If the subject is important enough. Tony Stark certainly is a special case. Have you met him? You’ll see.”

There’s no information in her statements, he doesn’t want to talk more about Tony, so he changes direction to what he wants to know. Needs to know. “Why are you here?”

“We require James’s expertise on an unfortunate and rather pressing issue. I’m sorry to disturb your morning.”

Natasha calls him James, so perhaps they’re not as close as Steve thought originally.

“I’m more sorry that you disturbed his sleep,” Steve points out. 

Her features remain the same, but somehow her expression, and entire persona, completely change. Her face, once light and careful yet still blank, is now a perfect balance of concern, and hope. When her eyes meet Steve, he can see a glimmer of sadness in them. Everyone in the future is so unhappy, he thinks, and then realises that now includes him too.

Not everyone. Some people yesterday did not have the same aura to them, not even when talking about death and war.

The only people who do, are the ones talking to, or about, Bucky.

“Yes, I am sorry too. I’m glad that you are aware of that.” He’s not as good as her, his face twists. “I worry about him,” she explains.

“Why?” He does too, infinitely more after last night. He now knows the what, a whole five letters of it, and the essence of why, but she might be able to tell him more. 

She tries. “What has James told you about Russia?”

“Only the important things,” he lies without skipping a beat, thinking to the first morning, where he pretended, and it got him answers. He already knows Natasha won’t fall for it, but he attempts it regardless.

She looks displeased. “No, I think not. Then it is not my place to say. But I am also from Russia.”

He grabs a biscuit and chews, not caring for the taste, and balances his thoughts, not caring if she can hear. She said she wouldn’t tell him, so clearly she knows some of what he doesn’t. But if she’s like Bucky, and works for S.H.I.E.L.D, he’s not sure he could interrogate her. That, and he doesn’t know her well enough to press on emotional points, not that his attempts on Bucky have earned him answers so far, just more rebuttal. She stares at him while he thinks, over her coffee.

At the forefront of his mind is what the hell is Russia? A country, yes, but the Commandos never made it there, and the Soviets were Allies. At least, as far as Steve and the history books know.

He said he'd lived in Washington since the 70s, so there's almost 25 years where he was somewhere else, ‘around’ he'd said, but Steve can't imagine why he'd be anywhere near Russia. Maybe for this woman, but she barely looks older than him. Looks, and age, don't hold much meaning, he reminds himself. 

“So I presume you will be staying here a while?” She asks, when he’s still not made any further progress a few minutes later.

Steve blanches, slightly shocked, because deliberately, he hasn’t thought about it nearly as much as other things. He's just followed Bucky blindly. Logically, he knows he will have to move at some point, his own house or apartment, and job, and life, that's the next step, once S.H.I.E.L.D gets their way. But he thinks of Bucky’s face when he told Steve he was allowed leave, and knows the answer without thinking. He nods, not quite trusting his voice. 

“Good. Then I need to ask you a favour.”

“I’m getting an awful lot of requests for those lately,” but he can't find the edge to his tone. For all this woman is irking him, with her beauty and cautious words and mind reading, the only emotion she’s shown so far is a type of concern towards Bucky, which doesn’t exist without some level of relationship. 

“Make sure he eats.”

“Oh,” he says lamely, because again, that was not what he was expecting.

“His sleeping pattern is mostly regulated these days, disregarding the minor disturbance with you this week, but we can all forgive that. But he will eventually succumb to fatigue, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, it’s a physiological response no human can avoid. Food should be the same, but I am convinced I have seen him survive on only coffee for weeks.”

With Phil, now Natasha, agreeing, there’s enough weight behind his worries. So far, staying quiet has extracted the most from her, so he doesn’t reply in case she continues.

She does, and Steve is grateful. “From what I know of my own experiences,” and her voice goes hard, “food is not a pleasure, only a necessity. Nutrition is only required for optimum body function, no more, no less. Or, in instances of defiance, may be used as a cruel yet effective punishment. For example, there are exacts of how much nutrition is required to reach a prolonged cusp of death.”

Natasha’s insinuation crashes into him harder than the plane to ice, instantly chilled through to bone, and he’s only seeing the white he plunged into.

When she speaks again, her voice is lighter. “In any case, you could say it’s a unacceptable habit he’s developed, skipping meals. He doesn’t often willingly eat, and when he does, it’s as if he is aware of such exacts to avoid such cusp, which is still only minimal.” She gives him a look of finality, and he knows it’s his turn.

“I... did ask him, it went about as well as anything else I’ve tried," which surprisingly earns him a sympathetic look. "But he says he doesn't really get hungry, that it’s uncomfortable to eat.”

“There was a point where I, too, was worried enough to voice it to S.H.I.E.L.D, despite knowing his reaction, and made him get reviewed for it. I’m sure he’s not forgiven me, although it was many years ago. But they found nothing. Functionally, his body is perfectly able to receive food. And he’s quite like you, I’m aware of your metabolism, yes, you have to consume more, much much more, to simply survive. So does he. It could be psychosomatic,” she muses, as an afterthought. “But most likely, this is the perfect punishment, inflicting both body and mind at the same time."

“Punishment for what?”

"For living." At Steve's pained noise she pushes the biscuits towards him again. "I have given it some thought, and I believe it might be worth you having a try, this is why I tell you. Don't linger on it, just persuade him,” she instructs, with a wooden face over her coffee cup.

“I’ll try,” he promises, not even for her, for himself, his own concerns, but he soon wilts under her look.

“No, Steve, you will do more than that.” Her words are harsh enough to physically pain him, it’s like they’ve cut through his chest, burnt through the ice. She either doesn’t care, or has struck down enough men, merely washes her cup, before turning back to him. “I will go stop him, or he won’t be any fun for you.”

“It’s okay if he needs to work. I can, I have other stuff to do, apparently a few historical milestones to catch up on.” After this conversation, he wants to reread the information Sam sent him, in the new light of day and this perspective, to see if that clears things up. It won’t, but he’ll keep hoping, until he works out what else to do. 

She might know, but he's not as willing to ask her as he was Sam.

“No, I think too much of this work will upset him.” A pause, a contemplation. “If he seems ill composed, or agitated, be sure to call me immediately. It’s very important, but not enough to let him know of this conversation.” 

She heads upstairs to the study. Again, Steve’s slightly vexed at her words, that she’s come in here, to Bucky’s home, when he was asleep, and for whatever reason she’s here, it’s already caused, and going to additionally cause, Bucky dismay. Furthermore, she wants to keep it from Bucky. No one is being honest, not even Steve, and he’s not sure any of them are better for it.

On a whim, he grabs his phone from beside his book, and sure enough, there’s a new entry in the contacts though he hasn’t seen her anywhere near the lounge.

Time passes, Steve can do nothing but wait, and when she comes back down with Bucky in tow, he is relieved when she immediately heads to put on her shoes, and that Bucky’s eyes are moving, even if they're tracking a little more than he’s seen so far. Steve moves to meet with them in the hallway.

“Well Steve, I’ve enjoyed our meeting. Hopefully James will allow us to do this again soon. I will take you dancing, I hear you like that?” 

Steve doesn’t agree, and thinks it for good measure in case she’s listening to his thoughts, but says, “I look forward to it," because he’s a gentleman, and his mother raised him better. 

But his first dance isn’t going to be with her.

Bucky’s hair is now pulled back in a small bun, like he did for their run, but it’s a half job at best, most of the bottom still reaching his shoulders. Shoulders which are still tense, all the muscles in his body taut, even his veins standing taller. If Steve believed Bucky was on edge the first time he woke, in S.H.I.E.L.D, he was terribly wrong. That was Bucky relaxed, enjoying a warm summer’s day with no worry more than his ice-cream melting, compared to this.

This Bucky is -.

Steve needs to draw it to understand, because his words are failing him, perhaps his eyes are too, or it’s a trick of the light.

But no. He’s sure if he set off one of Tony’s small bombs at Bucky’s feet, his cells would be so compressed tight that he would remain in one piece. In fact, the blast would probably just bounce off him, or Bucky would likely react before he even had the chance to think it.

This isn’t something Bucky’s going to talk about, if he won’t even answer questions about breakfast, or the 60's.

Bucky closes the door softly, keeping his fingers lightly curled on the door handle. He’s clearly waiting, for the bomb, or Steve. For all that he’s done lately, felt around him, Steve could very well be the bomb. The pamphlet on his phone said there were triggers, associations with traumatic events, and another chill trickles painfully down his spine when he thinks that _pulling Bucky off the table_ could very much cause a connection between _Steve_ and _bad_. 

Bucky is still waiting, and instead of crying, like he has felt like since he first read the words about CPTSD, Steve takes a deep breath.

“She’s nice,” Steve leads in, a gentle start, he promises himself. 

Bucky whirls, tight, actions forced, but he crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “Nice?”

“She’s… a firecracker,” he tries again, and Bucky huffs out his nose.

“One, no one says firecracker anymore. Two, that’s an understatement, and three, what did you talk about?”

“The weather,” and gets a glare for his efforts, but it’s not aimed at Steve’s face. “What? Never seen so much of a lady’s shoulders before, just wanted to know if it was hot outside.” For that, he gets another huff of air, but it’s somehow jovial and less aggressive, so Steve rewards him. “S.H.I.E.L.D. mostly. She made me try some biscuits.”

Bucky hums low in his throat, as if in approval, and goes back upstairs, returning moments later out of his sleep clothes.

“So…?”

“So what?” Bucky stills.

Steve flicks his glance to the slight shine on his temple, the same sticky red Natasha had on her lips. 

For some reason Bucky relaxes slightly. He shakes his kissed head and walks into the kitchen to start the kettle and put on some toast. It will be for Steve, he’s sure, but he finds he's nauseous, almost ill, doesn't want even the smell of it. 

Maybe that's what Bucky feels, why he doesn’t want to eat. It is uncomfortable, and Steve himself wants to say no to the thought of it. He’d grumble if someone forced it, too. He's not sure he trusts Natasha's version on Bucky's eating, not yet.

"What was that about?" Steve tries again, moving to sit at the island. 

"Classified," Bucky replies with a grimace. For a brief instance, Steve is relieved at the normality, but it’s gone when he breathes, "Sorry," and stares off again. 

The stare is worse than the chewing. This one is not quite as much, lasting much less than the first, but it's still scaring Steve more than a plane ever could. 

He still proceeds with his gentle offensive, using Natasha to get to his end goal. His first mention of her surprisingly wasn’t accompanied with defensiveness, rather even visible alleviation of stress. He’s already deduced Bucky isn’t married, or hasn’t married. For all the scuff marks and missing house items, there’s no amount of hiding that.

There's also no hiding that Natasha's shoes have a place in Bucky's house, she knows about his sleeping patterns, and kissed his head in private. 

"How do you know Natasha?" 

"Thought she'd have said that. We work together," Bucky says casually, pushing the toast towards Steve. 

He accepts it, but does no more than slowly rip it apart. "Do you kiss all the girls you work with?"

"No," Bucky admits, leaning against the bench, watching Steve's hands with a slight frown. 

"So is she your girl?"

"No."

“Why not?”

"Not her style. Eat your breakfast."

“But you like her?”

“She’s nice,” he says, and Steve feels foolish at the ammunition he offered Bucky.

“She’s not, _not_ nice,” Steve counters. He takes a bite of cold, torn, toast, because Bucky's almost glowering a hole in his hands. It works, some, so Steve keeps eating, in order to distract Bucky. He's close, he counts the five words about it instead of silence, as progress, and badgers, “So never?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Why not settle down with her? She obviously cares about you.” 

“Is that what you talked about?”

“We talked about you, a bit, yeah,” Steve admits. “So Natasha is-?” Steve persists, because it’s been too long, to be this alone. He can’t imagine that, the feeling he had last night, not for more than a night. And for all that Steve’s immediate reaction wasn’t adoration for her, she cares, and clearly Bucky reciprocates, to some extent.

“Tasha is-,” and Bucky struggles for the word, visibly uneasy, shifting against the counter. “Comfort. She’s whatever I need her to be, she says. She has many faces, that’s why she’s so good at what she does, and she changes them for me when I need. She understands, but she’s not that.”

“She let herself in much?”

Bucky shrugs. “She comes and goes,” and Steve wonders if he’s taking her space in Bucky’s bed, if he should move to the guest room, but nothing from Bucky’s behaviour confirms it. She seems fierce enough to kick him out of what would be her own bed, if she wanted Bucky.

Since being straight forward gets you nowhere, Steve tries his own cryptic question to confirm. “Where is she when she’s not here, then?”

“This might be a hard concept for you to grasp, but just like the world doesn’t revolve around you, it doesn’t me. She’s got her own life, own place, and she works. S.H.I.E.L.D is more than a job, sometimes. Every now and then it takes up who you are, and on those days there’s not much left for anything else.”

"You're too busy working, to be together?"

Bucky likes receiving answers more than giving them, but he shrugs, and offers a boon. “Neither of us want it. And these days, the world is much more understanding that you can live and sleep with someone and not have to call it anything, or get married.”

"Why didn’t you get married?”

“Never wanted anyone.”

“Surely someone.”

“Never found anyone,” Bucky corrects, his face hard and eyes sad.

"Not for 66 years?" Bucky jerks his head. “God, Bucky, you were never without a group of people in Brooklyn, had to fight my way through girls lining up half the time. I might not know you now, but I knew you well enough to know you could barely go a few hours without being bored, a day without getting lonely-”

“Look, Stevie,” he cuts him off harshly. “I came back from the war looking not a day older than when I shipped off. Becca was almost greying by then, with kids with lives of their own. And yeah, sure, you meet people who will never understand you in a million years, chat a little, learn their life story, and you find out that you served with their father, or their uncle, or whoever. Hell, these days it’s their grandfathers, who’ve been rolling in their graves a long time. And I don’t know the specifics of this body of mine, and I know you think it’s the best damned thing to happen to you, but I gotta tell you Stevie, I feel a bit cursed seeing everyone I know die around me. There’s only so many funerals I can go to before my suit wears thin.” 

It’s not the suit that would wear thin first. 

Steve has never had time, to stop, to think, and Erskine either didn’t know or didn’t want to explain, but for the first time, Steve’s beginning to see why Bucky’s not overjoyed with what his body can do. He doesn’t necessarily disagree with the choice word of it, either.

Which leads him to what he really wants to know about. 

"She said she was from Russia,” Steve continues, rather gently.

Bucky stills. “She is,” he says carefully. They stare off, somehow with Bucky not meeting his eyes. He hasn’t met his eyes since Natasha took him upstairs, but at least there’s emotion in them, though Steve’s not sure the trade off is actually acceptable. It’s not, he decides, when Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and says, “There were some Soviets, in my chunk of the war, the bit you weren’t there for. They're part of it, the-” he gestures wildly to his head, down his body. “And they weren't dissimilar to what she grew up with.”

Steve takes his time. He knows it’s not a whole truth, it’s barely a scrap, but Bucky’s bitten his cheek bloody to say it, and is looking at Steve with a sort of fear now that Steve can’t think of anything to do but nod. A fear at even the mention of Russians and Zola's lab and before, maybe even a fear of Steve, if his previous thought by the door was right. 

Bucky looks slightly relieved at the reaction, or lack of, and continues. “She’s never asked for anything in return, and I’m not exactly sure why she sticks around, but I think it might be a bit the same for her. People like to talk too much these days, sometimes it’s easier when someone else just knows. That’s why I want you to go to the VA again. You’ll find that, too.”

“Find someone who understands PTSD?” He cautions, but Bucky only looks mildly surprised again, as if it was the last thing he’d expected Steve to bring up. “I asked Sam,” he admits.

“That’s good, you should. There's doctor's and stuff that can help you with it when you're ready."

“I asked it because I wanted to know about you, Buck,” he says softly.

Bucky seems unperturbed, just starts making another cup of coffee. “Eh, S.H.I.E.L.D’s got a whole lot of other names and letters they add after that too, longer than the alphabet, you'd laugh, but I don’t care for any of them much.”

“What are they?” Steve asks. “The other things, what are they?”

“Taken care of, is what they are.” Bucky begins pressing on his palms, a move that Steve already knew as a nervous habit from Brooklyn, but when his metal hand starts to knead, Steve begins to worry he’ll hurt himself from it. More than a bitten cheek, no matter his healing. 

“Maybe not quite, if you get worked up just by me mentioning it,” Steve points out, and moves from his stool to pull his hands apart. Bucky glares at him, and tucks them under his armpits instead. Steve raises his hands in surrender, in peace, keeping his voice down as he adds, “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, and I get that, as much as I can, but this isn’t something that I have any idea about. I just want to know what I need to know, so I can help.”

“You’re here, that helps some,” Bucky says sickly sweet, with puppy eyes and a charming smile, that would make the ladies swoon into his arms. But Steve isn't them, and he’s too worried to be distracted by anything right now.

“I’m no professional, and I’ve only read the one information sheet, but I don’t actually think that’s how it all works.” The innocent look falls. “Come on, Buck, you’ve barely told me anything this week. Anything important,” he corrects, “Anything about you. So I’m not going to let this go. I don't care if you fuss, I'll keep asking until you're annoyed enough to answer.”

“Just drop it,” he sighs. 

“No.”

“Why?” He bites back, but Steve knows this move. 

“Because I don’t think you’re doing okay, not right now at least. I know Peggy and Sam are good, I just want to be like them for you.” Bucky is scowling by now, glowering so hard at Steve’s shoulder he feels it should burn a hole straight through it. “I’m not trying to upset you here. I just want to help.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, and turns his back.

“You know me, I’m too stubborn to accept that.”

“Yeah, and you’re being a real shit pal, on top of that too.”

“I’m trying to be a good one, would you believe?”

“If you were, you would leave it,” he whirls, fuming so hard Steve can almost feel the heat.

“Drop it, leave it, it’s nothing, that’s all you say. It’s not fair.” Bucky’s eyebrows fly up. “It’s not. It’s not fair that you have to live like this, no, and I don't want to either.” 

“You didn’t live with it, you got to be dead,” Bucky snaps.

The comment hits hard, knocking the breath out of him like a gut punch, no doubt as hard as Steve’s dig yesterday in the car. And this one, at least, is true. Steve holds his ground. “And now I’m not. You’d never let me treat you the the same, wouldn’t stand for it. C'mon, Buck, you’re my-” 

“I DON’T WANT TO BE SOMEBODY’S OBJECT OR A SET OF ABBREVIATIONS!” Bucky shouts. As soon as the words are out, he stares after them, terrified, either at their meaning, or of Steve’s reaction.

“You just want to be Bucky,” Steve says quietly, and the effect is instant. Bucky looks like he melts, slumping so limblessly Steve is sure he’d be on the floor if he wasn’t still leaning back into the counter, the only thing holding him up. “Well I don’t think you’re anything but Bucky. Just like you only saw me as Steve, no matter if I was sick or not.” Bucky is breathing hard, hands gripped tight, clearly still frightened. “You gave me that, Bucky, knew more about me than I even knew myself because of it. Just give me the chance to do the same. Hey? Just a chance, to help.”

After an eternity, Bucky nods. His expression changes, almost the blank of Natasha's, but he tries to push himself a little straighter. Neither of them say anything, but when it’s clear he’s not trying to just stand, no, he’s trying to reach a military posture, Steve moves forward. “Bucky, stop, stop,” he says, pausing when Bucky flinches away from him. “You don't have to do that, not for me. Just a hug, if you want, if it could help,” he murmurs. 

Bucky nods again, and Steve walks slowly towards him. He stands stiff, even when Steve wraps his arms gently around him, almost too scared to touch him. Eventually, Bucky relaxes, so much so that he collapses onto him. Steve doesn’t mind, he’ll hold Bucky up like this, if that’s all he can do. He'll do it for as long as he has too, watching the minutes tick by on the oven.

“And I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just going to say you’re my best friend, alright? I haven’t exactly got a large pool to choose from right now, but that doesn’t change it,” Steve says, once Bucky’s breathing slows, and he thinks he might be able to stand by himself.

“Don’t let your head get bigger, but you’re mine too,” Bucky says quietly into Steve’s chest.

“You sure? Sam’s pretty great,” Steve jests, letting go a little reluctantly.

“Punk,” Bucky grumbles.

“Jerk,” Steve replies automatically, but Bucky doesn’t see the fond, looking anywhere but Steve’s face.

There's a loud sound, from Bucky’s back pocket, but Bucky just ignores it, staring dismally at the corner of the island. Steve can see him, he makes no move to touch the phone, but a voice comes through from the other end anyway. 

"Fucking hell," Bucky curses, and leaves the kitchen as Steve sees Tony’s ID on the screen. 

Steve is centered as he watches him leave, more so than last night, because even though Bucky’s reaction was unpleasant, it almost seemed cathartic, when he shouted, when he collapsed. And he’d nodded, hopefully relenting to Steve’s requests.

The phone call doesn't take long, Steve can hear him moving throughout the house. On the third round of the same pattern, Steve’s curiosity is sparked enough to follow the footsteps tracing upstairs. 

Natasha’s prediction is immediate, regrettably. Bucky is slightly _off_ , more so than usual. 

“Don’t stand near there,” Bucky snaps, when Steve walks into the guest bedroom, quickly pulling Steve out of the window's sight line, before roughly drawing the blinds close. He moves the chest of drawers forward from the wall a few inches, apparently not finding whatever he's looking for, before pushing it back slightly askew.

“Buck?” But he’s ignored, as Bucky romps down the stairs, before starting a similar sweep of the downstairs area. “Bucky, you’re scaring me.”

“What? Oh, sorry. Do you want breakfast?” He pauses, looking past Steve's shoulder.

Steve shakes his head. 

Bucky already made him breakfast.

He's twitching a little, so Steve gestures for him to continue, and he races through the downstairs. After the third check, when the doors are locked and all the blinds have been drawn, Bucky heads straight to the garage to the punching bag.

“This is what I mean, Bucky. I don’t mind what you’re doing,” Steve keeps his voice steady, to hide the lie, “But I want to know why.”

Bucky winces at the noise of his own fist against the bag. “I can’t right now, Stevie,” he says, pale and shaking, pulling both hands away from the swaying back. 

“Well then, what can I do? Do you want me to call Natasha back?”

He shakes his head. “No, she’s got to-, she’s-. I’m gonna take a bath,” he mumbles, pushing past.

Bucky seems to check the house over once more, pauses at the bottom of the hallway for too long for Steve’s liking, then heads upstairs.

Steve follows him, he's not sure why, there's nothing he feels capable of doing and nothing Bucky will tell him, but a small part is worried that Bucky could somehow hurt himself like this.

He grabs some art supplies, and sits on the reading chair he fell asleep on, to listen to the bathroom but not watch, and begins to draw.

Steve sketches a picture of Natasha, though he’s not going to give it to Bucky for fear he’ll get a closer reaction to Peggy’s picture than Sam’s. It’s not something he necessarily wants to do, he wants no trace of her in the house, Bucky's house, but it helps him to think through his meeting with her. He doesn’t like her, he knows that, for what she’s done to Bucky. But a large portion of his thoughts are confused, as to what exactly the relationship between the two, because he doesn’t really understand even though Bucky partially explained it. Also, he wants someone to love Bucky, to care for him, which she might, but he's glad whatever they are hasn’t ended in marriage, or looking like it.

But when he thinks of Bucky being alone, not married, it fills him with loneliness that he wants gone for as much his own sake as Bucky’s. And where Peggy’s marriage made him entirely happy, Bucky’s lack of marriage doesn’t actually make him wholly sad, not completely, perhaps a selfish sort of happiness mixed in that makes him squirm in his seat.

He ends up defacing the sketch with thick black scribbles, so hard the pencil rips through the paper.

Bucky is silent, both in movement and in voice, when he leaves the bath close to two hours later. He's less, manic might be the word, but he’s still tense, offers no more conversation than automatic and dull replies to Steve, and he twitches every time Steve moves without warning. Bucky is all of the words Natasha described in her warning, but he’s only like this in the first place because Natasha visited, so Steve’s not entirely convinced she can help.

Not even when the stares comes again, lasting longer each time.

With no further mention of hiking, Steve decides that the best thing, just like Bucky thinks for Peggy, is routine, one he knows with Steve. So he reads, mostly out loud and asks more questions than he actually has about the 80’s. He prompts Bucky to put on some music, make dinner, eat, and put on a movie. It doesn't necessarily work, Steve thinks, but Bucky doesn't seem to get any worse from it; he seems to accept the routine, waiting expectantly for each new directive.

The stares are longer now, minutes, even more, only broken when Steve interrupts with noise or movement. Steve forgoes the movie completely and blatantly watches Bucky, to see how long it will take him to realise, to hopefully throw a pillow at him.

He doesn’t notice at all.

Steve is relieved when the movie ends, and even earlier than they normally would, they head to bed. He hopes that a full night sleep will settle him, prays that Natasha doesn’t visit tomorrow, so it will be better, even if it's a single half conversation that ends in Bucky shouting again.

Steve knows he said the right thing, what Bucky needed to hear, that Bucky _is_ still Bucky, and Steve will never see him as anything else, but as he reviews the day and listens to the unfamiliar breathing pattern beside him, he’s not quite sure he believes his own words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not enough huggles.
> 
> Started as 2000 and ended up as 7000 so not enough room for happy, only sad, sorry! 
> 
> I'm somewhat planning Bucky and Tasha's story, yay/nay?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn’t recognise him, and it’s not just his eyes or his face. Bucky’s entire body is alert, tense, like an animal on the prowl.
> 
> He looks lethal.
> 
> And pulled from nowhere, in his hand, at Steve’s head, is a knife.

Steve wakes in a way that reminds him of the war he's not long left. It's quiet, but everything in the air screams danger, a shrill ringing in his ears, behind his eyes, down to his very cells. It shouts at him to move, react, run, fight. In less than a moment, he’s fully alert, heart pumping, muscles tense, reaching, for a shield, or a gun, anything.

But there’s nothing. Nothing, because he’s not there, not in Europe, he’s far from it, no, he’s in a world that’s a long time from ruin. Lying in a soft bed, with warm blankets, with not even the sound of night noises to have woken him. But something has, and it’s-

Bucky.

He’s standing upright, his back to Steve, on his own side of the bed.

“Y’kay?” Steve asks after a moment, when it doesn’t look he’s simply getting up for the bathroom or some water. The night still sings, piercing in his ears through his brain, but it’s not the night.

It’s coming from Bucky.

He makes no move, but the room grows cold, colder than the ice he came from. 

Steve slides silently across the bed, rising just behind Bucky, only meaning to put his hand on hunched shoulder, but the instant he thinks it, Bucky whirls.

Steve is pushed back onto the bed, Bucky crouched over him, with so much force it takes his breath, even though the mattress is pliant enough to take his impact. It doesn’t completely absorb it, Steve is knocked so hard that the frame hits the side table and the lamp falls with a crash.

Bucky, who was looking at Steve, jerks his head towards the noise.

But look is not the right word for it.

His eyes are trained, with an paradoxical blank focus, as if all the dissociation Steve saw from the kitchen earlier is contained solely in them. 

And if Steve thought Bucky’s features were slightly off since he’d woken from his slumber after the plane, they’ve been all but erased in this moment. 

There’s no trace of Bucky at all.

Steve doesn’t recognise him, and it’s not just his eyes or his face. Bucky’s entire body is alert, tense, like an animal on the prowl.

He looks lethal.

And pulled from nowhere, in his hand, at Steve’s head, is a knife.

“Buck?” He breathes, barely even a breath, unable to restrain the sliver of unease that creeps into his voice. Not for himself, perhaps a little, but for Bucky, for whatever is happening to him. He wonders briefly, one clear thought in his swirling mind, if he is actually stronger than Bucky, could hold him down, if he can get to his phone to call Natasha, if this is what her concern was.

He’s too slow.

The door bursts open.

Natasha.

Followed by two agents.

Guns raised, trained on Bucky, Natasha cautions into the room, the agents on her guard. She looks calm, Steve is immediately thankful, but the agents fingers are twitching behind her, and they look the sort of terrified that Steve held in his voice.

Bucky is still on the bed, trapping Steve both in fear, and with his hands by his head and knees either side his waist. By his ear, opposite side to where the knife is, peripherally he can see Bucky’s metal hand twisting so tight into the sheets that it’s ripping the fabric, perhaps even the mattress. His eyes flick to Natasha, then to Steve, but there’s no Bucky in them, nobody at all, no human, just _murder._

As quickly as it appears, the eyes track down to the small red dot that marks his chest.

Sniper, through a window, even the idea hitches Steve’s breath. It causes Bucky to switch his attention back to him, the knife sliding close enough Steve can feel the blade’s tip kiss his hair.

“Stand down, James,” Natasha says as gentle as her face.

Steve wants to hiss, wants to scream at them to lower their guns, but he’s almost afraid of breathing again for fear that they will shoot, or Bucky might move, might do something that will then cause them to shoot. For all his body seems to have changed, no matter what he does, a bullet to the heart is as deadly as Bucky looks right now.

“James,” she tries again, still calm, almost crooning.

He whips his head to her, his knuckles white, a rippling up his arms in preparation. 

“Soldat!” She orders.

He pushes off Steve, towering, and the knife is flipped. Steve knows, can tell, his position, his muscles, he's ready to launch, and for all Steve doesn't adore her and she's holding a gun, it's a look that says Bucky could snap Natasha like twig. 

There’s no time to think, only act. "Bucky," he commands himself, not as harsh nor gentle as her, not crooning, nothing more than he would have ever to draw his attention from a Brooklyn afternoon nap. 

Impossibly, Bucky is on the other side of the bed, too fast to see. All guns are still trained to the space he used to be, lingering for seconds after he moves. It’s enough for Steve to twist on the bed, staying low and clear of the lines, to follow him with his eyes.

The dangerous mask is gone, replaced by Bucky. 

_Bucky._

But a Bucky, so young, younger than Steve ever knew. The face of a toddler, sick and screaming for his Ma, separated on a crowded street. His features are pale enough to shine in the darkness, emotions flying across too quickly in realisation for Steve to note them individually, heaving, his whole body seizing in fits to draw in air.

Natasha throws Steve a confused look, only momentarily, but murmurs behind her, the shadows of guns lowering. Either the movement, or the noise sets Bucky off again, and he’s scrambling, backwards, knocking the chair so hard it tips, until he’s pressed to the wall, into the corner, as far back as he can go. A faint crack, maybe the wall as he pushes against it, does nothing more to settle him, Bucky’s eyes are darting again, not with circumspection or focus, but unfiltered fear.

“Stand down, James,” she says again, kind with no command, and Bucky slumps, his head to his hands, continuing to tremble. There’s a murmur streaming from him, a constant flow of harsh, incomprehensible noises Steve doesn’t understand but knows their shape. 

Russian, and his own dread is amplified.

Natasha makes another sound, and the agents leave. Instantaneously, the red dot disappears, and the night is silent again except for Bucky’s harsh breathing and cries. Steve pushes himself upright, slow himself, but doesn’t make a move towards Bucky, hesitant to do anything, to stay or to leave, when Natasha mumbles, “Coffee, Steve. Please?” He can see no trace of her own masks, she’s focused only on Bucky, so he nods, and creeps backwards, as soundlessly as he can, out of the room.

Steve knows now how to use the coffee machine, but wishes he was independent for any other reason. Any other reason, than this night.

He berates himself, only quickly, for being so stupid, for thinking he might know Bucky better than she seemed to, no matter the time difference, that he didn’t call her when all of the signs, any of them alone, were enough to do so. For letting his own anger, his selfishness, and dare he say an ounce of envy, get in the way of _whatever that just was._

It doesn't last long, the flagellation, because he can't- he, _Bucky,_ it's all-. 

He slumps into the counter, it is good, strong, it held Bucky, and now holds him. His breathing is as heavy as Bucky's was, possibly still is, and he thinks he might be just as frightened, his thoughts no clearer. There's nothing he can do but tremble and chase his rattling thoughts.

Not until the coffee machine makes its small noise, the potent smell wafting through, and he snaps away and pushes himself upright, with one final breath. 

Again, not unlike Bucky, only this morning. 

Whatever this house, this future is, it’s turning them the same. This. This is him, is Bucky. This is his life now, as it is Bucky's, and he needs to learn to deal with it. He can't do that, not down here, and if no one is going to tell him, then he at least needs to learn by watching. Watching, how to help Bucky, then perhaps if there’s anything left, to help himself too.

But Bucky, he knows, if Bucky is settled, he will be too. 

By the time he treads back upstairs, Natasha has moved across the room, standing in front of Bucky, a soft stream of her own Russian.

Steve sets the coffee on the bedside table, keeping a bed between him and the two, and perches on Bucky’s side, just watching, eyes wide with the smell of coffee, to take in what he can, ignoring everything screaming in himself right now.

Natasha lowers herself and nudges Bucky’s knees open to kneel between them. Still cradling his head in his hands, he whimpers, and even from here Steve can see it’s hard, too hard, it’ll leave bruises, especially on the left. Natasha notices it too, but rather than forcing them off, she covers them with her own, as if embracing their strength as well. Leaning forward, slowly, she gently rests her forehead atop his and inhales. 

He mumbles something, in Russian again, but she shushes him, continuing to breathe in exaggeration, and Bucky follows. Steve is mesmerised on the bed, and in time he finds that he too, is breathing the same rhythm as Natasha. He’s calm, almost intoxicated, the events up until now slightly hazy. Steve forces himself to hold his breath, to release himself from her spell, he can’t let himself forget what just happened, even if he hates it, can't forget what he needs to learn. But Bucky follows her breathing, and eventually releases the grip on his head, bringing his fists to tuck crossed under his armpits instead. Natasha keeps her light pressure where his hands used to be, stroking over the red marks.

When Bucky whispers again, it’s in English, but it's raw and catches, as if unused for too long, so much that Steve barely recognises it.

“Why?”

She’s gentle with her reply. “I knowingly and willingly compromised your mind today, James. I could not let you face the consequences alone.”

"What happened?” It’s now Bucky, but it’s quiet and so far away that it could still be a stranger.

“You woke up in a different time. But we are in Washington now. There is no missiya, no nakazaniye. "

The only sound for long minutes is his shaky breaths. Then suddenly, almost an afterthought, he grabs at her shirt, right hand only, with wide eyes and pleads, “S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“As discussed.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D,” he breathes again, but it’s more definitive, almost his own order.

“Responded accurately and appropriately. Strike team of two through the entrance, one positioned outside in the east. All armed with firearms. No shots required.”

“No shots?” It's a quiet question. He releases his hand, as if she’s burnt him, just stares at, even now, still wavering.

“It was unnecessary. Steve was not in danger.”

His head jerks, as much as it can to her soft vice, and she inhales again. They continue their synchronization, and Bucky’s eyes drift shut.

“Steve,” he breathes, after an eternity.

“Steve is our priority,” she confirms, and Bucky’s shoulders sag in relief, releasing a final unsteady exhale.

Perhaps there is a quiet thank you, but it’s lost in a rustle of movement as Natasha guides him to his feet. She leads him away, into the bathroom, her fingers laced through and pulling, that Steve has no thought but of a child again. The tub is set behind the wall, he can only see what’s reflected in the mirror, and Bucky in the doorway, but he hears the tap run, a bath, and it’s mixed with Natasha’s constant murmuring. While the tub is filling, she nudges Bucky to lift his arms, pulling at the hems of his shirt. As it rises, Steve feels like he’s intruding on a strange intimacy, but can’t draw his eyes away. Bucky’s own eyes are still closed, he can see in the mirror, and his face is drawn, but it’s not until the material is up far enough for thin white lines to appear that Steve looks away.

At one point in time, he would have known Bucky’s body better than his own, and no question he would say the same about Steve, but they’re a long way, and time from anything he knows. 

For all he wants to, needs to, know, Steve feels ill at the sight, at the ideas of what may have caused Bucky to scar like that. Not Brooklyn, no, and he hadn’t seen these, not that he’d looked hard, blindly trusted Bucky, after Krausberg. Especially with the serum, Steve has barely a faint trace of his own spidered lines where a bullet passed through him. Maybe it was before Zola, the war, but that makes as little sense as his other reasonings. 

Steve remains lost in his own thoughts on the edge of the bed, not sure what else to do, if moving will scare Bucky again. The staring helps, he has a blank wall to aid him, perhaps this is why they do it, to pull himself from reality, to hide from fears and tears, and focus on nothing but the soft sounds of Russian and water.

He’s always thought it was a guttural language, but Natasha makes it sound smooth, comforting, and even if he doesn’t understand, the lilt of her voice is as calming as her breathing was. He continues to stare, longer than he liked even in Bucky, and waits painfully until Natasha comes to sit beside him on the bed. She hands him the coffee he’s made, the movement shaking him back to a body and mind that is suddenly hit hard with exhaustion. Although it’s no longer hot, there’s a reassurance of having something to do with his hands, and it does stay warm as it travels down. 

He wants to ask, even if he doesn’t want to know, but doesn’t want to talk about Bucky, not when he can hear, when he seems so much more _fragile_ than usual. Again, Steve now knows she can read his mind, she says "He will not hear us.”

It doesn’t help him enough, he stays silent, and they sit, small splashes every so often breaking the quiet.

“Is he okay?” He asks, when the tired threatens to pull him under. He knows that neither of the sides he saw of Bucky tonight are okay, but then again neither is the Bucky who walks during the day, but he needs something, anything, right now. 

“He will be. Give him time.”

That’s all he seems to be giving Bucky. Time to talk to him, time to open up, to explain, to to relax after each time he speaks. “Can you teach me to help him?” He questions instead, again because it’s all he can think to do, but is above all, the most important. 

“Yes,” her fingers are slim and small but Steve can feel the incredible strength as she squeezes his hand. It’s as calming as her contrasting gentle methods. “But not yet. I am happy to help, and it is not yet your burden.”

“He’s not a burden.”

“And I know that, as well as you. But all knowledge can be a burden." It must show on his face, because she continues, “James gets lost in his own mind sometimes,” she murmurs, nodding her head towards the bath. 

He’s surmised as much, but as always, he knows the what, but not the how or why. “Is that what it does? PTSD?” Steve asks, the only thing he can think of, and a genuine inquiry because it’s far different from reading something, to actually seeing it. Even if that’s something Bucky had explained, he wouldn’t have expected… _that_.

She looks displeased again, and Steve catches it. "I don't make this face for you, I make it for him. He can be very frustrating, especially when he is wrong." It's definitely not the time or place for it, but the comment makes him almost laugh, because that, that, is quintessentially Bucky. She looks appeased, and draws a breath to explain. “This is a little more than that, but that is a good place to start. And there will never be a better answer than both yes and no. I know it is confusing. But this, this has not happened for a long time, quite like the world you have seen so far is not normally like this. You have unbalanced quite a many things, James’ disposition the least of them all. Don't take those words as anything other than a fact, or you will frustrate me as much as him. We woke you from a frozen sleep of 66 years Steve, there are bound to be ripples and waves from the ice we melted. This is simply one of them.”

His jaw clenches a little, compounding what he already knows to be his fault, but to hear it from a stranger, no less painful. “What are the others?” He thinks of how he asked Bucky the exact same thing, when he said that PTSD might not be the only thing he deals with. He's not surprised when she gives a similar answer. 

“What I have to take care of, as part of my work," and though he had been expecting it, he groans, letting his head drop forward. "Oh, I see. No, there is an issue of security I must attend to. Not James's mind. Which is why I'm going to ask for your help, while I am working. I know you are settling in, but I need this from you. Please," and for all she's shown strength so far, in many forms, this one comes close to a beg. 

Begging takes a certain strength of its own, so he nods. 

"He is comfortable here, I don't want to move him, so I'd like him to stay, and you stay with him." He allows the confusion to show, for he has nowhere else to go. "It will frustrate you, and him, but it is important, and he will feel better for it."

"And I don't suppose you can tell me why," he grumbles, again unsurprised by her answer. 

"No, but I can stay tonight, and part tomorrow, to help you both."

It dawns on him, the situation she found them in, sheets twisted on both sides, and if she goes near the guest room, he won't have time to move his stuff to make it look like his own, sure she would notice anyway. “I didn’t-, we weren’t,-”

“It’s okay. The world has changed, Steve," she says gently. 

Bucky too, said as much, but there's still a sick fear, of what he knows could happen, what he's seen to happen, from just sharing a bed. Like he had with the discussion about attending the VA, he a little shamefully, turns it back on her. “Do you want to sleep here? With him?” 

“Are you afraid to be alone with him?”

“No, I-, I just don’t know what I did,” he sighs, lies, but the comment is, partly, true.

“You didn’t do anything, Steve.”

“I might have. I pushed, today, maybe a little harder than I should have.” 

"No," she says, adamant in her tone, so he corrects her. She was right about Bucky, right enough to calm him enough to get in a bath, but she's not right about everything.

"You said it was my fault, this happened when I woke up," he points out. 

"You listened to my words but did not hear them. This is not your doing Steve, believe me. You have no reason to, except that I tell you that this has happened many times before, even without you here. Without me here, without any reason.”

“Why?”

“Difficult to say. But it results in a less rationalised part of his mind gaining control, a control he cannot easily wrestle back. So we assist until he can, and then comfort him afterwards. He will be upset, when he realises, but that might not be until he wakes again tomorrow. But he will need you tonight, so I will stay in the guest room.”

He sits there, adding it to the rest of his knowledge from today. He hates it all, the future, but knows that it's not the future but actually the past he was not around for. No matter the word, it is growing bleaker and bleaker the longer he is here. 

“You will be safe.” Natasha says gently, after a while. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Did you really mean that? That you, or anyone else, would shoot him dead before letting him near me like-, like that?” 

“It comforts him,” she shrugs. 

“To think that, or to know that?”

She studies him for a moment, then turns back to watch the bathroom. She sips her coffee slowly, and when she's done, gets up to rummage through Bucky’s drawers. Finding what she needs on the first go, it kindles a small fire under his heart at the understanding that's she’s familiar enough to both dress and undress him. Steve knew that, obviously, might even want it for Bucky, but also thinks that he is a little glad Bucky isn’t married to her. She’s infuriating. 

But so is Bucky, sometimes, so maybe they’d match. Or cancel each other out.

Natasha’s not forcing Bucky out of the tub just yet, just sitting by him, her hands working through his hair, so Steve picks up the mugs and walks them downstairs, taking the time to wash and dry by hand, but not to let himself think. He doesn’t want to face those thoughts. 

He heads back up, stepping louder than he’s learnt to for stealth, unwilling to be on the end of startling either of them, now that he’s seen what they can do. Bucky is dressed in different bed clothes, these seem as soft as his blankets, and sat, no placed, on his side of the bed. The mattress is stressed where his hands grip tight, back ramrod straight, but his face is blank now, eyes ahead in the same thousand yard stare as the morning. It hurts Steve just as much as the first one, but now, he at least understands that part a little more. 

Natasha is finishing in the bathroom, and Steve is hesitant to enter the bedroom further without her. Bucky is distant even now, it’s different from the scare of before, but it’s an ever growing feeling that he’s in over his head the moment Natasha leaves. 

She comes out of the bathroom, and moves to slide past him. “Goodnight,” she says, but Steve holds out an arm to stop her.

“What am I meant to do?”  
  
“Sleep.”

“No, what do I do if it happens again?”

“It won’t. But I’m just across the hall. I'm very fast. S.H.I.E.L.D is still here, they are also very fast.” She watches him, while he debates internally. Too long for her liking, she adds, “You were right, with what you said before. For all I tell him that you are a priority, I care for him too. I will not hurt him, and I have not had to hurt him yet. Neither of you will be harmed tonight. There is nothing left to do but sleep."

She seems so sure, and it’s more than Steve, so he relents. Again, mostly out of habit and all his mother taught him, he asks, “Do you need anything?”

It’s a well contained scoff, just a noise from her nose, and comes with a warm smile, and then she’s gone.

Steve leaves the door open, the hallway light on, wondering if complete darkness had anything to do with… whatever just happened. Mirroring Natasha’s earlier movements, he kneels in front of Bucky, and tries to act as placid as she was.

“Buck? Can you hear me?”

Bucky nods, it’s small and slow while still staring ahead, but he’s responding, not in the sharp movements of before, and Steve is immensely relieved, enough to finally breathe for the first time. 

“Okay, that’s-, that’s good. Are you tired? Do you want to sleep?”

Another nod.

“Yeah, me too.”

Bucky makes no move to get into the bed, just blinks slowly.

“Alright, let me help you.” Bucky pauses, and so does Steve, until there is another nod. Steve cradles the back of his neck, hand strong and splayed behind his head in support and uses his other arm to hook under Bucky’s knees to lift them onto the bed. He’s not expecting Bucky to all but melt at his touch, then freeze again when Steve lets go. He moves slow, and even when climbing into his own side, Bucky is still stiff.

“Can I touch you?” Steve whispers, on his side, thinking of how Bucky was by the counter, if this is the same, if the world really has changed this much, and not just his world. Not just Bucky. 

It’s agonizing, waiting for him to respond, and when it threatens to break Steve, Bucky finally nods. Steve acts slowly, murmuring his movements as he shifts himself closer, rolling him slowly onto his side so they’re facing, and leaves his hand on Bucky’s hip. Steve is rewarded instantly by a slight decrease in tension, but it’s only ever so slight. He shifts even closer to pull Bucky’s head just under his chin, face nestled into his chest, lacing their inside hands together between their hearts. He’s pliant, his limbs loose, but even this is still not enough for either of them to sleep, so he pushes one leg between Bucky’s, and pulls Bucky’s metal arm to rest on his hip. His own arm wraps around his hip, hand landing where the shirt has ridden up on his back, onto bare skin still warm from the bath. Finally, when there’s a point of contact at almost each part of the both of them, Bucky relaxes into him, and closes his eyes.

Steve has half a mind to be concerned that Bucky might feel too trapped, or try to escape, but his movements earlier were so sure, so strong that Steve doesn’t think he’d stand a chance regardless. They weren’t tangled like this before and Bucky still reacted. Natasha is here, he reminds himself, and S.H.I.E.L.D, but of all they’ve done so far, all that they’ve helped him, it is only now, tangled up together, that Bucky finally seems… _okay._

And just like the small fear of poisoned steak, Steve decides it wouldn’t be the worst way to go if the last thing he remembers is Bucky in his arms. He’s soothed, he’s comfortable and warm, either from the overwhelming scent of lavender, or Bucky pressed against him, despite his clenching and sore heart from the scare before. 

As Natasha did, he evenly regulates the rising of his chest, and can feel Bucky’s breath follow the same, warm onto his shirt. Far too quickly for Steve to savor every second of simply being alive, and here, they fall asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing happened,” Steve says around another bite of toast, after he glances at Natasha for approval when Bucky cautions into the kitchen. 
> 
> “Nothing happened,” Bucky repeats quietly, and Natasha makes a small contented hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of a short chapter used to be 1000 words, but now it is 3500. 
> 
> Sorry, I guess?
> 
> R.I.P everything I have been procrastinating.

Steve wakes up earlier than Bucky, that’s not unusual. What is unusual is that Bucky’s face is so relaxed, so different from the night before, or any time Steve has seen him asleep, or awake, that he can think of nothing else to do but just look at him, drink him in, hold him, until he dozes off again, actually content and warm for the first time in the future. When he wakes again, it’s late, even for Bucky, who’s starting to shift in his arms.

Steve lets him come to in his own time, in small movements and soft sighs, but when the dancing under his eyelids turn to darting and his whole body goes rigid, he whispers, “It’s just me. It’s Steve.” 

Bucky’s eyes fly open, wide, and stare at the chest, the barrier in front of him. He tilts his head up, momentarily focusing on Steve, tracing his face before tracking down to their entwined hands and legs, metal arm gripped tight into Steve’s hip, heavy enough to bruise, though Steve will never say. He wants nothing more than to move his hand on Bucky’s back, to rub it, hard enough to reassure, like he remembers his mother doing to him, but everything tells him not to. 

“It seemed to help,” Steve offers, still quietly, as Bucky’s brow begins to furrow slightly. His eyes flicker past Steve's shoulder to the lamp knocked the night before, back in place now, and pulls suddenly into a seated position. Surveying the room, lingering on the chair, the wall, it’s almost methodical the way he sweeps every inch, until his head jerks violently at the sounds starting in the kitchen.

It’s not like last night, but this confused and scared Bucky is starting to frighten him again. Unsure if Bucky will crumble away like dust under his touch, or find another knife, or revert to an inherent shell of only Russian, Steve draws everything he has to keep calm, to think calm. He’s learnt from his mistake, he is most definitely in over his head, unashamedly desperate for Natasha’s help, so he casually rolls himself out of bed and says lightly, “That’s probably breakfast. Race you.” He makes no move to rush, or see if Bucky is following as he heads downstairs, not surprised but ultimately relieved that it is indeed Natasha in the kitchen. 

He can only just hear Bucky’s footsteps behind him, and from the set of Natasha’s shoulders, he knows this much of her by now, he can tell she too is evaluating them as Steve walks down the stairs first. Bucky is far and cautious enough behind Steve that he is already seated at the island before Bucky has enough of a visual of the kitchen to comprehend the situation. He stops, one foot caught in mid air in a mirror of yesterday morning, as he spots Natasha holding a fry pan. 

He’s suspicious as he asks, throat raw, “S’ this?”

“This,” she gestures to the toast and juice on the island, bacon and eggs still cooking, “Is breakfast, James. We will follow it with lunch, then dinner, though I might not stay that long. All of which you will eat,” she says, as if mothering a child. 

He’s still apprehensive, afraid almost, as he asks, “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Steve says quickly, too quickly, and Natasha shoots him a disdainful and pointed look, her body positioned so Bucky can’t see.

“We had a sleepover,” she explains instead, still in her calming tone.

“Tasha,” he breathes. “What happened?” Pleads Bucky, his eyes and face horrified.

She sets some bacon and eggs on top of the toast Steve has pulled onto his plate, and puts the pan back on the stove top before replying. “You woke up, and wouldn’t go back to sleep. It was keeping Steve awake, so he asked me to help. You took a bath and that soothed you. You look well, so I’m assuming you’ve been asleep since,” and Steve nods in confirmation. 

For the first time, he’s glad no one tells the truth in the future. He might almost understand why they don’t.

But Bucky still looks horrified, almost ill, so she adds in the controlled tone, “Your lack of trust in me is upsetting, James. You are free to check if you wish, but be quick about it because your breakfast is getting cold.”

He skips the last four stairs with the same lightning speed as last night and is in the kitchen before Steve blinks, turning Natasha, lifting her arms, twirling her quickly. She lets him, like a doll, push her head forward to look at the back of her neck before he’s satisfied, though his body is tense and his face still terrified. Bucky disappears, only the almost imperceptible sound of bounding from the top stairs to let Steve know he’s headed back upstairs.

“He was checking to see if I was injured,” she explains, grabbing a piece of toast herself. Steve notes that she’s wearing different clothes, though there were none in the guest room, he checked, but decides not to ask. It is not high on his priority list. “He would have already assessed your body when he woke and noticed the lamp and chair, so now he will check the rest of the house for signs of a fight or injury.” 

“He doesn’t remember?” Steve asks, but it’s not really a question. 

“He might, it might come later, or not at all. The mind is a curious thing. I just work with what he provides me, which is not a lot, so generally and most importantly it’s the information he doesn’t say.”

“How often does this actually happen?”

“Less and less, these days,” she concedes, at Steve’s look. “As I said last night, it has been a long time. Years, even, though maybe not many. I’m afraid this time was my deliberate undoing, but it was rather unavoidable.”

“Why?”

“It was work related, you understand.”

"Maybe he shouldn't work there, if this happens," Steve starts quietly.

"This is why he is retired," she says in a low voice, low enough that he's sure even Bucky wouldn't hear it, not matter where he is in the house. His unease for even thinking that, dissipates with her words, and he's glad that he got that right. That she agrees. "But it was still unavoidable, and worth the cost."

He’s still struggling to grasp what exactly it was that happened, but he tries to put a name to it, one that she might at least understand, if she says it's not quite PTSD. “Was it a nightmare?”

“Do you think it was?”

“Do you always answer everything with a question?”

”Does that bother you?”

It does but Steve chuckles, surprised at himself. At least he now understands where Bucky got the awkward phrase from, on the first day. He’s also coming around to her personality, the one she’s showing him in any case, in this morning, now that he’s had some sleep and aware that she can do for Bucky what he cannot. The thought doesn’t hurt, not in the same way Sam or Phil did, but this seems much bigger than either of those scenarios.

Or not, he understands, mid-bite. Bucky’s nerves, his ability to smile fully or lack of, are all possibly intertwined with last night, knotted in a way that would be impossible to ever untangle. And, a little upsetting, maybe far too big for Steve to understand or accept.

But understanding means learning about the scars he saw. Natasha said he doesn't need to know just yet, and he, for the first time, agrees. This is a good day for firsts. He can't help Bucky if he's overwhelmed himself, and he is very much so with just one night of disturbed sleep. The guns tell him that it was perhaps it was an easier night than others. So, for now, he will accept her help.

For now.

She catches his pause and raises an eyebrow. “Thank you”, he says simply, finding he means it more than anything he has so far. 

“For the eggs or the answers I do not have?” she replies.

And it makes him laugh, again despite himself, because at least, she’s honest about keeping things from him, in a different way from Bucky. "I guess you are spies," he emphasises playfully, but adds a little more seriously, "I dunno, I just thought, me and Buck, well, there used to be nothing we didn’t tell each other, mostly cause we were never apart so there was nothing to have to say about it. I’m still wrapping my head around the time difference, that a week is 66 years but I guess I just kinda hoped it would be the same. That somehow time would be irrelevant, or something, that I'd be more than that."

He blushes as his words sink in, their second meaning, the small thrill of fear making him redder than any other emotion right now, even though she was adamant he stay in the bed last night. "Yes, I think we all hope that too," she says, more serious than he's ever seen, and the still warm in his chest from holding Bucky almost fades. But the stairs groan just enough, and the moment is gone. 

“Nothing happened,” Steve says around another bite of toast, after he glances at Natasha for approval when Bucky cautions into the kitchen. 

“Nothing happened,” Bucky repeats quietly, and Natasha makes a small contented hum.

“Sit,” she orders.

“I don’t like them scrambled,” he grumbles, still quiet, as she loads up his plate.

“You don’t like anything. But you like these, because I make them.” Her back is turned when she says, “I’d tell you if you did anything, James. You should know that.”

Steve steals a glance at Bucky, who doesn’t disguise his guilt or despair, so much so that it overwhelms all his features. He doesn’t like this look, anymore than any of the other faces he’s seen of Bucky. Now that it’s been a full week, he wishes every day could be Thursday, to go see Peggy, because that’s when he seemed the most-.

Steve doesn’t know the word for it.

Bucky is nothing other than dead beat, and the usual sort of grumpiness that always followed it, but even with a third person in the house, Steve doesn’t particularly feel less alone. Often, they seem to share silent conversations that leave Bucky more annoyed, and he swats her away when she piles a mountain of pillows around him and swaddles him in blankets, though he does burrow in. Natasha talks to him, a constant stream of Russian, that it looks like Bucky is ignoring, but he twitches when she takes a breath too long. Steve just watches, from a fake pretense of reading, and notes what seems to appease him, but she doesn’t exactly help him in the way that he needs.

But at a baseline, Steve feels like he is coping, partially because he _isn't doing anything_ , even when the stare comes and goes, just like it did yesterday. Bucky seems more or less okay, more more than less, and Steve's chest is a little lighter for it. 

That changes, when Natasha announces she has to leave, just after lunch, which was not that long after breakfast, having woken late. Bucky stiffens and for the first time looks anything other than slightly peeved and blank, he looks crestfallen of all things, and Steve himself feels a horrified expression on his face, both that he is wildly unprepared and Bucky knows it.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises. “The quicker I do my own work, the more at ease he may be.”

“Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?”

“No, not unless he does, but I urge you not to press, not right now, for fear of another...” she waves her hand.

It’s nice to know that even she doesn’t know the word for it, because Steve has been struggling for in the back of his mind ever since it happened. “I don’t know what to do,” Steve confesses.

“You are doing well.”

“I’m not doing anything, because I don’t know what to do,” he says again. He’s never, not once in his life, perhaps only when his Ma took her last few breaths, felt so helpless. “They say,- the things I read, they, are there, triggers, or things like that?”

She sighs. “Not from you, no. You are doing well. You are,” she insists, again, again, at Steve’s frustrated scoff. "Just keep being yourself, that’s all he wants and needs right now.”

“Yeah and I want Bucky to be-,” he stops before he says ‘himself’. “I want him to stop feeling like this.”

“It will pass, it always does.”

“Does it?” He asks darkly. 

“It won’t happen again, I assure you. There are agents here to appease you, in any case.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“This is just what he’s like when he’s tired.”

“I’ve seen him tired, and this isn’t it.”

“You said so yourself Steve, what is one week for you is 66 years for him. He is 94, I’m sure that number you may understand."

“No, I’ve seen him tired in both times, and this isn’t it.”

“No, you’re right. He’s exhausted. Life can be long, Steve. Long and hard and cold. Remember that, and let him be, like this, let him sleep, and make him eat, and he will be better for it. Not immediately, but he will be.” He’s still not happy, almost whining in desperation, so she sighs. “He’s not told me otherwise that he doesn't dislike the soft, or the warm, or the words I surround him with when he’s feeling like this. I'm sure you will find your own things, and hopefully he will tell you more than he ever did me about how to help. I too had to stumble blindly for a while, even now I still feel that way.”

He's slightly floored by her confession, but in fairness, pours his own. “I don’t know Russian.”

Something flashes in her eyes, and it’s dangerous, but her words aren’t. “It’s not the Russian that helps, it’s the reminder that he is not alone, even if you might both might be feeling that way.”

Steve doesn’t necessarily agree with all her words so far, but he feels he might not agree with her much on anything because she changes face too often. However, she’s finally given him something he can work with, work on, so he offers her all the trust he can in the moment. Yesterday she made the offer clear, but today, she doesn’t seem as willing, so he pleads, “Can I call?” 

“Yes, but I will be working. It’s a sensitive issue, as is he, so I will do my best to balance them.” He quickly reverts to annoyed, again, for all that she seems to be, a girlfriend, a partner of sorts, Steve’s first instinct would be, is, to drop everything for Bucky. He forgot she can read minds, and she tsks at him. “I know James, not as long as you, perhaps not as well, but in the ways that matter most in this circumstance. I am well practiced at this. I know that the best thing for him right now is for me to do my job, and for you to be here. If you do have more serious concerns you can ask Phil, but I have instructed him not to be too concerned.”

She tsks louder when his jaw clenches. Alarmingly, his eyes have also started to burn, so she grabs his forehead and brings it to her own. Startled, Steve lets her, and understands as she begins with a loud inhale. “You Americans always forget to breathe, I’m convinced no one ever teaches you how to properly do so in the first place. Have you ever seen a fire burn without oxygen? I think not, and you are the fire, Steve, but where is your oxygen? It is what you need to survive, and once that is achieved, you can focus on thriving. If you are feeling this way, just breathe, and then continue your thoughts. Breathe with James, he too is better for it. And he’s better for you, Steve, I promise.” Once again, he’s under her spell, and by the time she leaves, he almost believes her.

Almost believes himself.

Bucky doesn’t mention the incident at all, not to Natasha in words that Steve knows about, or him. Steve hopes it’s because he believes their ruse, or is too weary, but he burrows further into his pile once Natasha leaves, and somehow becomes more silent, less of a presence, which Steve doesn’t think is just tired, or old. The air seems to vibrate around him, and Steve knows without Bucky having to say what it is. It’s anxiety.

Steve does try to talk to him, he really does, but it’s difficult to talk to someone who isn’t talking back, or even acknowledging him. He uses what he had yesterday, finishing off the 80’s book aloud seems to help, both Bucky and his own self-consciousness, and when Steve gets up to make dinner, Bucky doesn’t complain like he has every time Steve has tried to do something for himself, because Steve reads from a recipe book he finds. It’s clearly unused, and Steve has his best attempt at a recipe in a kitchen he doesn't know, with ingredients he’s never heard of. He makes a right mess of it, both the meal, and Bucky's usually immaculate kitchen. He holes himself deeper when Steve curses slightly when he realises he used a cup of flour instead of a tablespoon, ruining everything, but pops his head back out, only his hair, when Steve laughs at how ridiculous it all is.

“You’re not even going to eat this, are you, Buck? You had breakfast and lunch though, I suppose that’s something,” he adds, mostly to himself. For all Bucky is responding, he’s not sure he’s actually listening. 

Instead, Steve finds a different sort of biscuit in the cupboard and slides that into the fold of the blanket. Moments later, both a hand and a face pop out, and Bucky unconsciously nibbles at the cookies, looking more and more like a child, shrouded in his blankets and pillows. It goes down without a fuss, and Steve knows there’s sugar and butter in it, what his Ma used to slip him to fatten him up. Bucky silently accepts a cup of hot cocoa that Steve doesn’t actually ruin. He makes Bucky sit up for that, making sure to tuck the blankets around like Natasha did, and doesn’t get pushed away for his efforts, then starts a movie. Steve can't talk throughout the film but sits on the same couch, leaned into a pillow that's also pressing against Bucky, and if it works, he doesn't show, but he at least seems to be paying attention to The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr Toad rather than just staring at it.

Maybe there was some truth in Natasha’s words, that being there is _just_ enough. 

It’s not until the movie is finished and Steve stands for bed that Bucky spouts his first words since breakfast, surprising Steve enough to start, consequently Bucky to shrink back into his safety in response. Steve just waits, standing.

“I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight,” Bucky mumbles, staring intently at the coffee table.

Steve’s eyebrows fly up, not at the first recognition that something could happen in the night, but more frankly at the idea of kicking Bucky out of his own bed, in his own home is obscene.

Bucky catches the movement and opens his mouth, still not looking at him, but Steve cuts him off. “It’s unmade. I was going to fix it after Natasha left, but I got caught up in the 80s,” he lies, because although he washed the sheets, and forgot to dry them, he has no doubt Natasha managed to complete the task at some point, though she never left Steve and Bucky alone.

“The couch then,” Bucky says, now looking to his feet. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, but there’s no response. Steve kneels in front of him, and when Bucky doesn’t look up, he gently lifts his chin up with his index finger, forcing him to meet his eyes, and tries again. “Nothing happened. Nothing happened,” he repeats, balancing his urgency, his reassurance, with gentleness.

Bucky’s breathing deepens and his face falls into despair, but Steve keeps going. “Nothing happened, and even if it did, Natasha and the S.H.I.E.L.D agents can get here quicker than either of us could blink.” Bucky looks away, but Steve draws him back with this hand, leaving his palm pressed to Bucky’s cheek. “Hey. Hey. I’m tougher than I look, Buck, if that’s what you’re worried about, and I think it might be. If I could survive a plane crash, keeping in mind it was you who got me out, I’m sure I can handle a nightmare, or whatever that was. Yeah?”

Bucky is searching his face, almost desperately, and for all that it’s scaring him again, he keeps his own matronly look. Caring, but firm.

Finally Bucky nods, and Steve tries not to let his relieved exhale show.

“But I’m not helping you shower. I’ll call Natasha if you want company for that,” Steve adds, hoping the light teasing will help.

Bucky lifts one side of his mouth in a half effort smirk, but he murmurs, “You wish you’d be so lucky.” It slides off his face once the words are out.

They head up the stairs, Steve bringing all of the blankets. While he rearranges them, digging a small hole for Bucky so he'll be surrounded by soft fleece under and on top, all the sides of the bed, even over the pillows and by his feet, Bucky just hovers in the closet, watching, and Steve's slightly self conscious that he's doing it wrong but gets no affirmations either way. Once he's finished, he gets ready for bed himself, Bucky copying but much slower. For all it was a joke on both their sake, he doesn’t shower, doesn’t change out of the clothes he’s in, so Steve marvels in his ability to draw it out, delaying the inevitable.

When he looks towards the door twice, Steve asks casually, “Did you want to check the house over before we sleep?”

Bucky nods, and moves with the same incredible speed, and it was only then that Steve understands he was asking for permission, something that clenches his heart so hard he’s afraid it will stop beating.

It doesn't, and Bucky's work is quick, undoubtedly efficient, and when he’s done, finally clambers in and lies so far on the edge of his side that Steve is sure he’ll fall off. But when he lies so tense for half an hour that even Steve can’t sleep, he relents.

He doesn’t want to overstep, or touch Bucky too much and make him more uncomfortable, but it seemed to help him relax last night, and it’s certainly a way to not feel alone even in sleep. Forgetting to ask, that should definitely be important, Steve says “C’mere,” and grabs at his far hip, rolling him in close. As vigilant as Bucky seemed, he clearly wasn’t expecting that, and his head lands on Steve’s chest with a small ‘oomph’. But the effect is instant, his shoulders drop and his head nuzzles in. He doesn’t move further to touch Steve reciprocally, but he doesn’t move away when Steve casually slings his arm around, splaying his fingers between Bucky’s shoulder blades.

“You think too much,” Steve breathes, but rubs at his back to let him know that it’s okay, and starts breathing, slow and deep.

He doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, and it’s not until he’s slipping away that he hears a quiet whisper.

“S' because my thoughts are finally my own.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to change the ending, which means changing the remaining half of the story (oops), so bear with me while I rework muchly. The tags will be updated as I go, so be sure to keep checking those out and contact me if you have any concerns!
> 
> But it's comments that make me edit like crazy, so thank you for leaving them and hopefully it's to your liking! (I re-read my first draft and yes, it was wildly awful, so thank you, thank you, thank you, for helping me be better and coming on this journey with me and Stevie and Bucky, even though we're all slightly tortured along the way).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel like I’m drowning here, pal, and you’re just watching me and not throwing a lifeline. You’ve never done that, not once before, would always throw yourself in first. It’s not sitting right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to get lost in multi-chapter stories, which is why this took so long. I am constantly re-editing due to comments and ideas and all for the better, unfortunately it just didn't flow as easily into this chapter. I'm not 100% on it, but if there are any changes, I'll let you know.
> 
> Similarly, I'm constantly updating the tags/ratings/trigger warnings so please check those frequently.

When the sun dawns and wakes Steve, he wakes with the knowledge that it’s Monday. The word doesn't mean much to him, not in a literary sense, though at the same time, it’s everything, and more. It means a week of nights in Bucky's bed and he hasn't been kicked out yet, no small inclination that Bucky wants him anywhere else, despite there being a perfectly good room of his own just across the hall and another bed partner readily available. Steve feels a small swirl of disgust deep in his heart at the lie when he still shucks on a pullover, a hoodie Bucky calls them, or balances a blanket on his knees for the appearance of being cold. Perhaps not used for the intended sense, the items are comfortable at least, not scratchy nor hard with dirt and sweat like he’s known almost his whole life, but now that Natasha knows him, has seen him, heard his thoughts, he's not sure how much longer he will get away with it, but until Bucky tells him so, right here is where he'll stay. 

A small part of him, the selfless part that is much, much smaller than the selfish part that keeps him in close contact with Bucky most the time, tells him that he doesn’t want Bucky to wake alone, so this morning, still wrapped up in Bucky who again looks relaxed, not quite as much, he decides to savour it instead of heading downstairs to read. The larger part, the heat that centers him more than anything else tells him that once Bucky is, Bucky is, he’s still not quite sure of the word, once Bucky is _better_ , he's sure he'll have to stop. 

For now, unlike yesterday, he doesn’t let himself fall asleep again, simply takes the time to relearn Bucky’s face, after the three days between the train and the plane constantly conjuring it in fear he’d forget it. Steve’s heart drops when he sees that there are a few differences, the features he had known, he had, he _does_ know, they’ve just been translated wrong in his memory. This is the Bucky he wants to imprint in his mind, not the Bucky who wakes and walks, carrying an edge that is starting to cut into Steve too. The Bucky who has nightmares so harsh they momentarily rub all existence of him in the dark and leave him raw in the daylight that follows. 

He wants to remember this Bucky, the one who is calm, without a care in the world, no past or future to overshadow what he simply looks like. The dark eyelashes standing clear on pale skin, the soft fullness of his lips, the bottom one sitting out a little more than the top, in a perpetual pout. The strong nose, and sharp jaw, the little indent in his chin than Steve’s never tried, but it sure that his thumb would fit perfectly in, to scratch against the few days worth of stubble. He’s not quite sure, he’s never known Bucky with more of a beard than this, wonders if it would hide how young he looks, still the same age Steve knows and wants. Young and, the word wraps around Steve’s heart with a tight squeeze, innocent.

This right here is all he cares to know about the future. 

It's not long, earlier than Bucky usually stirs but midway between Steve's time that he feels the familiar rigidity take hold, the flickering eyes of wakening, and he whispers again, "It's me. It's Steve."

He stays still as Bucky's eyes wash over him, the room, the slight confusion and scrambling thoughts, but this time he doesn't rip himself out of Steve's arms. 

No, he's more gentle about it.

Without force, without acknowledging Steve by way of words or eye contact or expression, he sits himself upright, drawing his knees up.

A dull ache appears where Bucky used to be between his arms, but Steve lets him, because he understands when they're no longer sleeping, it's not acceptable. Steve is almost grateful when he sees the underlying tension seep into his muscles, the same as when he woke at S.H.I.E.L.D with his hand held, a tautness that Steve has hated but has been the new normal. It's quickly wiped away by the something, _something_ in Bucky’s expression. The something that is still distant, not looking intently at Steve like he knows Bucky does when he doesn’t think Steve will notice, and Steve knows that whatever happened two nights ago is going to last, perhaps the residue lingering for a few days more. 

Steve doesn’t like it, makes him ache more than the distance now between them, but this, he almost understands, if he likens it to one of his own bad coughs that just won’t shake.

Still watching Bucky take his surroundings in and prepare himself for the day with a look that glazes further with each passing minute, Steve tries to remember through a fever haze his own worst days. At the forefront of any recollection is simply Bucky, Bucky and whatever sickness or hardship the world had decided to throw at him. Not only days, Steve realises, but days and weeks and months and years of Bucky looking after and out for him, both hand in hand with his Ma, then taking over wholly when she died. Through each of the memories, he comes up short of any one cure but care and patience and time. All of which Steve was irritated by, would rather chug down a bottle of tonic, but the three doctor prescribed methods were a sure medicine that kept him alive, enough to bring him here, now, the future.

Today, with the purpose of giving back, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve prescribes the same to himself, and Bucky.

Even though there is no sickness that Steve can see or hear, he knows whatever is affecting Bucky is making him a dampened version of himself. Composed enough to go through the motions, albeit measured and often prompted, it’s almost a mechanical process, and Steve catches himself thinking of the robotic and hollow process he sees before him, his actual metal arm is the most human part of him. Wanting to prove himself wrong, Steve tries his best to coax any spark of Bucky into his eyes. He fails, awfully, but Steve is nothing but stubborn, and persists. It’s a slow day, and Steve squashes down the frustration with the knowledge that Bucky would have had many a slower day.

Nonetheless, it’s a day of their almost settled routine, of Steve’s reading, a familiar loneliness creeping back in when Bucky doesn’t speak unless spoken to, all in monotone and scripted perfect answers. There’s no mention of leaving the house, no more than a quick rebuttal when a walk for fresh air or sunlight that sets Bucky on edge, waiting for the same bombshell by the bottom of the stairs, his body tense, eyes darting again. For hours after Steve tries, Bucky’s face stills and tightens each time he goes to speak, in a way that terrifies him and squeezes tighter around his heart than the word innocence. Steve doesn't try again, but he thinks that he’s done some damage, he’s just not quite sure what or why.

The bomb comes when Steve knocks a glass and it falls, Bucky moves before it’s even registered to Steve what is happening. It’s caught, perfectly upright, with a shaking hand, before even a drop has spilled, but Bucky’s body is perfectly crouched for something more, the explosion that will never be. 

“It’s alright, Buck,” he says slowly, taking the cup from him, gently setting it aside, but careful not to touch any part of Bucky, who looks like a live wire. “I got it. It’s just water.”

Bucky returns to his place on the couch, leaving Steve unsteady and unsure on his stool. He studies him, harder than he would anything he would when drawing, unnoticed, for so long before the truth wears away at him, and Steve can see each of the layers of watchful, wary and weary buried so deep under control and distance.

He knows Bucky tries to fight sleep that night, and so does Steve, for fear that his actions today were a predisposition to Saturday night. He pushes away unconsciousness as he does Steve’s arms until almost dawn, when his chest finally evens its motions and his face goes slack. There's a clearly defined no all night, so Steve doesn't try to touch him, just lies silently on his own side.

Steve waits until the sun has risen high enough to bathe the room in it’s glow until he takes in what might be the first breath all night. It flows out as relief, as whatever it is that haunts Bucky so, Steve is sure it won’t come during the day. Even so, Steve isn’t sure if the breath is true or not, in that at least if it did happen, it would have summoned Natasha again. He’ll face the foolishness he feels that he’d let her know of his fears in the first place, for which he received no reply, if only she were here. He’s not sure which Bucky will wake this morning, but without the help of Natasha, he runs through his options.

Tony can reply immediately, at any hour, Bucky said, but Steve doesn’t know Tony, not more than stories, or the clothes he’s wearing, or the phone he’s texting on, and for what Bucky has mentioned about him, he’s possibly too extravagant for this volatile, no, delicate situation. 

It’s early, but he knows there are some habits that just don’t shake, so he rolls across to his own phone, and messages with fair eloquence something that had taken him the better part of twenty minutes to perfect.

He barely suppresses his groan when Sam replies that he is out of town, but it’s drowned by a second buzz, ‘You alright?’.

Made difficult with his distraction of exasperation and frustration, Steve struggles to reply. He’s not sure Sam would tell him anything different than Natasha, and he doesn’t want vague instruction right now. He wants someone else, to come in, to be here, to make Bucky better instantly, even if it is just to reset him back to the Bucky who made him try on clothes and learn how to work the DVD player. Then after that, Steve can learn what to do. This trial and error method is not working, nor is care and patience, it’s making things worse, and it’s close to breaking Steve as well, after just two days. There’s nothing he can text to convey that, and while he thinks, the phone starts buzzing more frequently.

“Is everyone this impatient in the future?” He grumbles when he understands it’s a phone call, and answers. It's different to what he knows, he could wait hours for a telegram, weeks for a letter, but at the same time he’s grateful he might get this sorted, right now. He rolls himself away from Bucky, into the hallway, but unwilling to take his eyes off him, Steve settles in the doorway, with a low voice.

“Only the attractive ones. Just call me the Patron Saint of Knowing When Something is Up. That, and it’s goddam sparrows.”

“Sorry, I thought you’d be awake.”

“Never said I wasn’t. What’s wrong?”

“I, well, I don’t really know,” he confesses.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s not me, it’s Bucky.”

“Ah. Is he a bit off?” When Steve hums in response to the word which describes everything and nothing, Sam continues, “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Don’t take it personally, but he’s used to being alone, having someone in his personal space is going to throw him, maybe almost as much as this whole future thing is throwing you. There's also the fact that it's a someone he thought was dead, saw frozen in a plane crash and is now, well, not. Very much not.”

"I'd say he's a bit more than thrown."

"To which I'd reply, very sensitively with the upmost respect for your wacked out situation, the guy's lived 66 years you that you haven't seen and most likely haven't even heard about, he's not going to be who you remember two weeks ago."

"I know that," Steve grumbles again, because, like with Peggy, he's not an idiot. He'd already made peace with new Bucky being not _his_ Bucky. But this isn't new Bucky, so he tries, "This, this isn't that. It's more-, I don't know. I don't really know what I'm trying to say," he sighs angrily, at himself. He hadn't planned on this, on talking, he'd just planned on Sam coming in and taking command, like Natasha had. 

"Start with what's got you worried enough to call me."

"He had a, well, I don't really know the word for it and Natasha didn't help, a nightmare, and ever since-"

"He had a nightmare?" Sam cuts him off. "When was this, what happened?"

"Saturday, he just snapped out of it when Natasha came in, with guns blazing. Actual guns, Sam, there was a goddam sniper aimed at his chest."

"Shit," Sam says. "Does he remember?"

"Not that he's said, but he's not really said anything. He knows something's up, because Natasha stayed, and he's been weird with me."

"Do you feel like you're in danger?"

"I shouldn't be, not from Bucky."

"Not the question, Steve," Sam's voice is hard.

"I, I think I should feel like I am, but I'm not. He's never done anything to hurt me, would knock the teeth out of people who even thought about it, I'm sure."

"That was a Bucky from a long time ago. I'm not saying it's not him, but this is what I mean about the time difference."

"He's a lot stronger than I remember. I think probably stronger than me, and faster. Fast enough to pull a knife on me, at least."

"Shit," he says again, which makes Steve sigh. Sam's proving to be no more help than Natasha so far. Perhaps he will have to call on Tony, and if he's anything like Howard, he's not sure how much he wants to have that conversation. And also, Steve's not quite sure why, but he doesn't know how to explain but the knife isn't really the most worrying part.

He tries. And mostly fails. "I mean, nothing happened, I can't say for sure if it would have or not, because Natasha didn't give it time. And it hasn't happened again, but he's been, I'm not sure, not okay, since it happened." He feels like a traitor saying it so close to Bucky, but even watching him sleep, it's evident that something is wrong. 

"He will be," which makes him groan. "Steve, this isn't the first time this has happened, and it might not be the last. I know you're worried about him, but he's been handling this a long time.”

“It doesn’t look like he’s handling it.”

“Not to you, maybe, but you can’t see inside his head. Bucky's got a whole heap of grounding techniques to keep him in the now, they’re more intense than anyone else I know, so he’s probably just running through those. That, and the after effects of a nasty, you wanna call it a nightmare, well, think of it as a hangover. Without the good time. With, like, a very, very, bad time instead.”

"And the tension? The darting eyes, the loud noises..?" Steve can hear the warmth in Sam's voice, he knows it's soothing, but it's just not enough for him right now. 

Sam pauses, not enough for Steve to know if it actually is a pause it not. "You read those pamphlets I sent? They're not ideal, but they should at least give you a baseline."

"Yeah, it's just different seeing it. I guess I just don't understand how he can't even relax in his own home, with me."

"At the bare minimum, the crudest way to put it is that the dude's got a lengthy amount of work and life experiences that tell him that if he's not always on guard with anything and anyone, he's dead. Or worse."

"It's freaking me out a little, making me antsy."

"If you need a place to crash, I have a super human worthy couch, Bucky tested."

"I can't leave him."

"I think he'd take a few rumpled feelings over accidentally stabbing you."

"He's not going to hurt me, and I'm not scared of him, I'm not, I'm scared for him, and if anything, it seems like he's the one scared of me." There's a pause on the line that lasts too long, this one is actually a pause, which makes Steve's heart stop. When it picks back up, he covers the mouthpiece to let out a shaky breath before he asks, “Sam, is there reason for him to be scared of me?”

The next pause doesn't stop Steve's heart, it goes straight to his stomach, which swirls and threatens to come up, though nothing but water and bile. “I can’t say for sure, Steve. He's probably feeling a lot of things right now, most of all trying to reverse a long history of grief. That, and dealing with a lot of things he's spent a long time coming to terms with, and getting you settled in. If you’re worried about that, then that's something you'll have to talk about with him."

"I can't."

"It's not a nice conversation, for sure, but you've got to at least try."

"No, it's not that. I can't, he can't. He’s not really listening right now. Not talking, not listening, not eating, gotta tuck him into bed, most nights,” then immediately regrets it. The less people he admits that fact to, the better, no matter what Natasha said. They might think differently if they know sharing a bed has now transcended into touching. "I just, I don't know what to do. Natasha said be myself, but I think what I'm doing is wrong, that I might be making it worse."

"That's also something you'll have to check with him about. Only he knows what makes him tick." When Steve stays silent, he adds gently, “I get that it’s hard, to see someone you care about like this, but he'll be okay. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself too, yeah?”

“I’m fine,” he bites his words, then bites his lip. That does not sound like someone who is fine, and Sam apparently agrees.

“It's no shame if you’re not. And I don’t have any words for you about this whole waking up in the future thing, but I do know about relationships. If things are too difficult, it’s okay and important to take a step back, take a minute to yourself, and just breathe about it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be feeling like this, if Bucky would just tell me what’s going on and how to help.”

“And you might not get that for a while, so in the meantime, you work with what you got.”

“I don’t have anything, though. The only thing I’ve got in this new world is,” he struggles, “Bucky.”

"Have you had a minute to yourself since you've woken up? To let it all sink in, to think about how you really feel about everything?"

"I, I've tried," he admits, "But it's hard in the house, everything is just a reminder that I don't really have a choice, it's happened whether I like it or not."

"Which is why he's tried to steer you away from people and places so far. What about nature? I'm sure you had trees in your time, and he's got that nice reserve behind his house. Go for an hour, work out what you're feeling, and what you want from it."

Steve swallows down the words that would describe the panic he felt when he got out of the shower the other morning and Bucky was nowhere to be found for all of ten seconds, he's sure Sam would have some choice words to say about that. He covers it with, "Bucky doesn't want to leave the house. He shuts down every time I mention it."

"He doesn't have to go. It might even be better if he doesn't. I think he's just trying to get you to do everything together so you don't feel too alone."

"I still feel alone," Steve says, small in his own ears.

"I'm sorry about that, I really am. You can message me not when you need help, you know."

"Thanks, but, it's more..."

"That you woke up and everyone you know is gone? That's a whole load to unpack, and I am definitely not qualified for, not counselor wise and I'm not even sure friend wise. I know Bucky's been looking into people for you, when you're ready, but I think it might be confusing right now, until you're a bit clearer about how you actually feel. Even more, now that you seem to be compounding Bucky's feelings onto your own."

"I'm not compounding them, it's just, right there. All the time. Kind of hard not to notice when it's ignoring you five feet away."

"Which is why I suggested that alone time."

Steve concedes. He's never wanted to be far from Bucky, but then again, he never wanted to be almost 70 years in the future. "Yeah, alright."

"You mean it?"

"Yeah, I do. Thanks, Sam.”

“Not sure I helped, but I'll still take a signature or something,” he jokes. Maybe. He knows Sam has nephews, so maybe not. But it’s not a hardship, not in the least. “I mean it, call me if Bucky's not too chatty, but I'll see you Friday.”

Steve sighs at the mention of the VA. If he never went back, it wouldn't be too soon. And he can't imagine how those stories would make Bucky feel better.

He feels no better for his conversation with Sam but he takes the truth in it, that a run, after several days inside, could be nice, even just to push himself to the point of knowing nothing but shortness of breath and burning muscles. He's definitely not going to think about the things Sam suggested, that's a shoe in to a train wreck, what choice words, perhaps plane wreck would be more appropriate.

Leaving a note on his pillow that he's going for a jog, though even if he ran for three hours he'd be back in time to shower and slip back into the bed before Bucky woke, he silently dons new clothes and lightly bounces down the stairs. After a second of thought he takes his phone too, just in case, it eases some of his own nerves knowing he can contact Bucky at any time.

He makes it no further than the front door. "I'm sorry, Captain Rogers," an agent, not one he knows, blocks him in the doorway. "I'm going to have to ask you to step back inside."

"Is this Bucky?" Steve asks, eyebrows high, with a familiar rise of small fury, not for this man, but for this situation. Authority, no matter if he agrees with it or not, enrages him, and being told he can't do something, well, that riles him up like nothing else. Even if that something was something he didn't necessarily want to do in the first place.

"It's a little higher than that, but he doesn't necessarily disagree." The agent is not apologetic, or anything other than sure of the fact that Steve is not getting a step further out of the house. 

He’s not going to wake Bucky, not yet, he knows that won’t result in anything good, and right now, he’s almost shaking with anger, maybe with some nerves, that short of dodging S.H.I.E.L.D’s gunfire, he’s not going to release outside the house. Instead, he turns to the garage, and seemingly allowed to at least open the rolling door, he goes to move the car out of the way. It only takes a minute to work out how, most of it is already done for him, which only irritates him further.

Everything in the future seems to be easy to learn, to figure out, to understand. Except for Bucky.

Hours pass by, and Steve hasn’t stopped, for all his muscles are screaming, he just can’t. It's not fixed his thoughts, or his frustration, he was never convinced it would, but he'll keep chasing that hope until he comes up with a better option. 

The better option watches him for a while, leaning against the doorway, no longer the grey of the day before, closer to the Bucky of last week, at least that Steve can see out of the corner of his eye. He continues, ignoring him, as Bucky’s a part of the reason he’s hitting so hard and for so long, not really though, and hell, he's not even sure if Bucky’s actually seeing anything anyway.

When he sits down on the steps between the garage and the hallway, Steve's pumping heart clenches painfully at the sight of his knees drawn up, looking like a child. Not a petulant one, but a scolded, an upset, young face, too young to be so tight and alert, scoping the garage though there’s no one else in here but the two of them. It’s disconcerting, jarring, to put the two together, and it makes his punches harder, Bucky’s eyes tracking each time a little sawdust flutters out of the tear from Steve’s consistent combinations over the past hour. When he notices Bucky is imperceptibly flinching, blinking a little too widely with each punch, Steve stops, just holds the swaying bag.

He heaves, swallowing once, before saying, “I feel like I’m drowning here, pal, and you’re just watching me and not throwing a lifeline. You’ve never done that, not once before, would always throw yourself in first. It’s not sitting right."

“I told you, I got no clue what I’m doing, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, his eyes finally stopping, resting on his feet.

“You know how to talk, been talking my ear off for years,” but it gets no reply, not more than the physical reaction of upsetting Bucky further.

He's not sure what Bucky exactly has to be upset about, which is the problem, so Steve takes his time, composes his words, prepares his own script. When it’s polished, he slides in a bit of a Brooklyn accent for good measure, so just like Natasha said, the words he says will both be heard and listened to. 

“I know you don’t think you know what you’re doing, and that’s okay, because neither do I. I said we’ll work it out together, and we can, but not like this. A bit of communication along the way would help. From the both of us. So here’s mine. I’m feeling okay about taking in all this future stuff, slowly, you were right about that, did better than I would have done by myself and I’m grateful. It's still not right in my head but I’m not going to break down anytime soon, and I’m also not going to leave. Not unless you ask me, and really, I’ve got nowhere else to go. But it’s not that. I don’t want to, I don’t, but I want to leave the house sometime soon. It’s like being bed-ridden even after the fever goes, Buck, I know it’s been a while but I’m sure you don’t forget the rude words I had with you each time you pushed me back down. And I’m not going to be okay about the new world if I’m not allowed to see it. I'd like you to be there, but if it's not for you, then I'm not going to make you hold my hand. I can get by on my own. But you gotta let me know. I don't know you like I used to, and that's nobody's fault but time's, so you're going to have to use your words until I do.”

Bucky nods, as if he’s being chided in a school room, but not with the smirk he'd usually shoot Steve afterwards. “Guess it’s just been so long since I’ve actually had to talk to anyone.”

Steve sighs and begins to unwrap his hands. “You say things, and do things, that I don’t understand, and then leave me in the dark about it. Not about the future stuff, you always help me with that, but about _you,_ ” he stresses. “That’s what I really want to know about. I don't even care about the rest of it. Doesn't bother me what year I find myself in if you're here too. But half the time, it seems you're not. Here, I mean. And when you are, you don’t seem alright either. It’s frustrating me.” Bucky stays silent, so he adds. “It’s upsetting me too buddy, and I know enough now to think that’s a lie. You’ve got Tony, and Natasha, and Sam. And they seem to know plenty. Hell, they've told me more about you then I've learnt in a week living here, so I'm guessing you do a bit of yapping to them.”

Bucky seems to steel himself, lips mouthing words that don't come out. When they do, his voice is simple. “Hydra told me what to say, when I was allowed to say it. S.H.I.E.L.D stopped me from saying anything, and when they did want me to talk it was to give their answers, right answers. Tony talks too much for anyone else to get a word in, and Tasha just knows without actually having to say anything. Everyone else I know has either read a file or a history book, so I don’t have to tell them anything either. I used to talk to you sometimes in my head, though, but the S.H.I.E.L.D shrinks didn't like that neither, so I got told to stop that quick smart once they found out."

“Well, I’m not any of them, and I'm here now. Come on, Buck, it’s me. What's been up the past few days? I've never seen you like that."

"It's just, hard, sometimes."

"Hard to what?"

"Everything."

Steve closes his eyes in frustration, and takes a breath. He lets the answer settle, thinking how, sometimes on his own worst days, when his Ma asked where it hurt, and the only answer was pure and simple - _'everywhere, Ma'_. Not just in his body, but his mind, the air he tried to breathe, anything he was in contact with, or thought about being in contact with.

"Is it always hard?"

"Grin and bear it, usually," Bucky twitches with an unconvincing smile, and Steve shoots his 'Steve' look, which gets him a small shrug. "Mostly it's manageable. I haven't spent all these years being a heaping mess, believe it or not."

Steve is currently leaning towards the not. "How do you manage it?"

"Tasha helps, simple distractions, changes each time, I guess it depends on what it is. I haven't really found the best way, not yet."

That makes Steve still, but he tries not to have it show in his body. Bucky still might not be looking at him, but Steve knows he would be able to tell.

Bucky said years, so have Natasha and Sam, so this doesn't seem like a recent thing, that he's still struggling with. That almost seems to be hurting him.

"So what was Saturday about, then?"

Steve wants to clarify, he's not sure Bucky would even know what day today was, or the day that the incident happened, but at his reaction, he knows he doesn't need to. Bucky stiffens, his hands tight and knuckles white and grunts, "Work."

Steve pulls down the punching bag, trying to keep his voice level. "I've never seen anyone's work do that to them."

"It was just a nightmare," Bucky insists feebly. "You must've had them in Europe."

"I did, and none of them did that to me. It didn’t really seem like a nightmare, Buck,” Steve says and moves to sit beside him on the step. Steve has to lean forward, both their shoulders don’t fit in the door frame, but by angling himself this way he can still keep looking at Bucky, who’s back to staring at his socks.

“That’s funny, cause you said nothing happened,” he responds, and Steve welcomes the accusation, falling into their pattern.

“Yeah, well, this is what it feels like, not knowing stuff.” It’s a low dig, but he’s done lower. In any case, it feels justified, after the past three days.

“What did it seem like?” Bucky asks, curiously, wrapping his arms around his ankles, somehow curling himself even smaller. He tilts his head onto his knees, eyes resting on Steve's shoulder and explains, “I don’t ever remember it, and I’ve never seen it. Always feel like people are lying to me when they retell it.”

Steve’s spent half his time mentally berating Bucky for not telling the truth, so he's not about the start being a hypocrite. He does, however, try to soften the words with his tone. “Sorta seemed like you were possessed by the Devil.”

Bucky accepts it without reaction, but Steve can’t be sure if it’s different to what other people have told him. “Well, I reckon it was a type of hell. Just never heard myself called the Devil before. Wouldn’t mind it though, suppose the Devil doesn’t take orders, he can only give them.”

"Natasha said it happens a bit?"

"Not so much, not any more."

"So why now?" There's a silence, too long, so Steve nudges him, and says softly, "Hey."

“I’m trying, here, Stevie,” Bucky says, taking deep breaths, enough to draw him off his knees.

“Alright then, take your time, if it means you’ll actually say something.”

“It’s just... They know.”

“Who knows?”

“Everyone. Well not yet, but soon.”

Bucky’s talking, but he’s not making sense. “What's got you all nerves about that? I’m going to have to start living outside this house someday. You said yourself that S.H.I.E.L.D would announce it at some point. It’s gonna happen, so maybe it’s just better to get it over with.” 

“I just- Someone knows.” 

“Well, a group of everyone is made up of someones.”

“Yeah, but not all of them are assassins.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes. There's not more of an appropriate reaction than that, but his mind turns. Work, Natasha's part, being forced inside, the S.H.I.E.L.D agents, what's put Bucky on edge so much. “Okay,” he says into the silence, because he thinks that he should say something. "Well, what do you want to do about it?"

"Tasha's taking care of it, she said, she promised, she-, I just didn't think it'd take this long."

"It's been three days," though Steve is not quite sure if that constitutes a long or short time in the event of assassins. He's not exactly had much practice with this sort of scenario. Bucky, on the other hand, might have, if S.H.I.E.L.D is involved.

"I could do it," Bucky breathes, almost to himself, "but I can't risk it."

"Risk what?" Steve asks. He thinks he might know, but in Bucky's state, he's not sure he agrees with the former part of the statement.

"You. Me. I-, I'm the only one who could stop it, I don't want Tasha to get hurt, but I don't want to leave you alone. And you saw what happened when it was even mentioned. I don't know if I can keep my head around it, I don't-. It’s not that I don’t trust S.H.I.E.L.D, or Natasha, but… I guess I don’t. Trust them. Or anyone. I don’t even trust myself most of the time. Can’t bring that out into the world, shouldn't be allowed, should get rid of it,” he says darkly.

“Do you trust me?”

Bucky looks up in surprise, but there’s no doubt in his voice. “Yes.”

“And I trust you. I wanted to run that first day, Buck, in S.H.I.E.L.D, and it was only that I trusted you that I stayed.” He nudges Bucky with his shoulder, but it does nothing to appease him. 

What it does, in fact, is make Bucky _cry_ , Steve realises with the same sort of horror as he did the first time he saw Bucky cry in the S.H.I.E.L.D room. Twice, now, in a week, he hadn’t even cried this much in the war, not that he saw. Hell, Steve's sure he could count the amount of times he's seen Bucky cry on one hand, and already he's running out of space on the other.

Steve wants to put his arm around him, grab his hand, anything, hoping it would go with the touch like it did in the night, something about this is different, that the touch would only be worse, and Bucky had just come from saying no only hours before. He lets Bucky shudder through breaths, and when they've slowed a bit, Steve tries softly, "Hey, what are those for?”

"I was supposed to take care of you," Bucky says miserably, closing his eyes as if it will stop the tears. It doesn't, and each one trickles into the cracks of Steve's failing heart, pooling and he's sure he will drown again soon.

"And you have been, Buck, just like you always have. You still are, I promise."

“Not if I can’t protect you, not when I’ve done this.”

“What do you mean? Bucky, was it one of those groups you mentioned?” He prods gently.

Bucky shakes his head.

"Then who? You and I could take them. I know you don't want to talk about what you can do, but if it's not far from me, well, we've always been a good team. Now we’d be better, I reckon."

Bucky shakes his head again, taking catching breaths and wipes at the tears angrily, but still won't open his eyes. Steve thinks through what he knows of Bucky, in any life, and he knows that Bucky's never cried when he was sad, or angry, or guilty. The only time Steve can remember tears at all was when Gracie got knocked over by a bicycle and broke her arm in two places, and had to be taken to the hospital, and maybe once or twice when Steve's breaths weren't coming in right, and then quietly the night after he enlisted and Steve pretended not to hear. Or a week ago, when Steve tried to leave. None of those times was he wholly sad, or guilty, or sick.

Bucky only ever cried when he was scared.

And Steve’s never seen him this scared, not ever, not even with-

"Bucky, who’s got you so spooked?"

The words come out through clenched teeth, gritted, a look that says it pains him to do so. “Hydra, Steve. Hydra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is hard. Be kind to others.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck,” Steve says slowly, “Why do you have a handgun in your glass cupboard?”
> 
> “I have guns everywhere,” is the reply, chin out in defiance. Bucky’s gaze is hard and steely, close to the look he saw on Saturday night, a look that if he never saw again in his life, would be still be too soon for Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back. Bucky was always the better dancer, Steve just fumbled blindly along to whatever he followed.
> 
> I guess things don't change much in the future. 
> 
> TW for I'm not sure the exact concepts, but loosely self deprecation and non-specific suicidal thoughts, and dissociation

Bucky hasn't called him Steve since he woke in a white room feeling colder than death itself. He'd become accustomed to, even hopeful, wanting, the endearment, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cloak, protection from the cold and lonely of the future. Some days he'd pretend to ignore Bucky once or twice, lost in his book, just to steal an extra Stevie when he felt something not quite right start to creep into his bones. Other days, he'd melt at the sing-song way Bucky let it dance off his lips and into Steve's heart with only the grace a Barnes could have. 

Bucky said that he called him Stevie because he was _his,_ and for the first time in his life, Steve was not going to argue. It was the first real spark that lit up Bucky’s eyes when he realised his power, and if it was going to give some life to his otherwise blank features, then Steve would put himself back on ice before he took that away. Even so, it was more than that, even more than Steve liking it as much as any man should. After the world adopted him as Steve, though it was the furthest from 1945, it was also the closest, that Bucky knew, Bucky understood the difference between who he was and who he had to be. And wanted him not for the latter. 

But now, in this moment, he is Steve again, and it’s with all the force this enhanced Bucky could muster to slap him in the face. No, it’s more than that, it hits him as hard as the ice. With no protection of cloak or shield, he’s frozen with the knowledge that Bucky doesn't mean just Steve. 

He means Captain America. 

The Captain America who’d been created solely for the purpose of stopping Hitler, though to those who knew the real reason, stopping Hydra, ending a war either way. Who’d commanded an elite squad for a year, through Austria and Italy, across Germany and barely letting them pause for half a breath, a day or two in London, before they were off again to Norway. Who’d let his best friend get tortured, give his life even, let others march up to death’s gates before the Captain was fighting the Devil himself and the skies opened and he thought it was finally time for God to choose for him heaven or hell, in the stars or the bottom of the ocean.

The Captain America who’d died to make all that happen, even if that last one wasn’t wholly true in reason.

His life equated to the nothing he always thought it would, though he'd allowed himself a small portion hope after the serum.

"Huh," is all he manages. 

He wonders briefly if he should ask Bucky to put him back in the ice, properly drown him this time, hit his head hard enough for good measure. Bucky is probably the only one who could hit him hard enough, though, if a plane crash didn't manage to do that, probably not. Even so, dying, it was no worse than living, and he stills feels like he's drowning while he's awake, told Bucky as much, and who knows, the afterlife might even be better. He'd see his Ma again, at least. Bucky is old now too, maybe he could come with Steve, and they'd be deserving of the eye roll Sarah Rogers would give them as they marched up to the golden gates together.

He thinks she's the only woman to ever have tamed Bucky, and there's a slight image of all her grace chastising a man twice her age and size, and him looking every inch of scolded that only she could do.

Steve starts laughing. 

He’s not sure where it comes from, but it bubbles out, spilling from his lips, and on the steps with his own knees curled up, if he closes his eyes, it could be a hot summer’s school morning, sharing an orange and giggling at the not-actually-funny running commentary Bucky had on their classmates. It’s almost cathartic, and releases a tension of Steve’s own that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. It sounds unused, too high, and feels wrong when it rattles in his chest and scratches his throat, and it dawns on him that he hasn’t actually laughed, properly laughed, this whole time he’d been in the future. He’d barely even laughed in the war, not since Gabe’s pant leg caught fire and he tripped over Monty’s outstretched legs comically slow, with eyes and mouth perfectly round, a look that will never leave Steve’s brain.

Bucky must notice how out of place it sounds too, because his head whips fast and eyes fly open. But he’s not laughing, no, he’s staring at Steve with a sort of mortification.

It stops him crying, at least.

“Stevie?” Bucky whispers.

The effect is immediate, the name floats over him and instantly quells the hysteria. Without it’s release, it builds inside him, pressure and pain, tighter and tighter, leaving no room for air and he clutches at his chest as it burns, all the way up his neck and behind his eyes in a sort of headache, a buzzing in his ears.

Steve manages to choke down a sob, a single gulp of oxygen, his head in his hands only for a moment before he breathes it all away. The mania, the horror and enormity of a situation that might otherwise crush him, is gone in his following loud exhalation. He shifts himself on the step, angling his back so he can lean his spine against the door frame and drops his head back, eyes closed to block out what he thinks is concern, and a bit of fear, at him, at his reaction, in Bucky’s gaze. “Just, what was the point of it?” He whispers, when he’s got just enough air to do so.

“What’s the point of any war?” Bucky agrees.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, his shoulders heaving with the knowledge and still inadequate supply of air. Bucky might not have to drown him at this point, his body might do it for him of it's own accord. The minutes pass, and when he can finally think, when he remembers for the first time in two weeks what exactly the existence of Hydra can do to a world, what they were trying to stop. “Where did we go wrong?” 

“Nothing short of the fact that the fuckers take their motto very seriously,” Bucky spits blithely, and Steve offers a half laugh. It doesn't scare Bucky as much as the first, and with tears long forgotten, he seems almost the calm that Steve craves for himself right now.

“Oh my god,” he exclaims again, weakly, exhausted. “It was all for nothing.” Maybe the hours of punching have caught up to him, or even the missed nights sleep, because Steve feels drained of all energy and will. Hydra could burst through the front door right now and he wouldn’t be able to resist, no more than a casual wave of acknowledgement. “Tell me,” he says, though he’s not sure he cares to know, of another failure, one that cost lives and livelihoods, he just wants Bucky’s voice to wash over him, lull him to sleep, so that when he wakes, he can write it off as a bad dream. Perhaps it is, perhaps he's already in his afterlife in his icy grave, some sort of half heaven and hell that contains Bucky, but also contains this much pain. He puts his hand out to Bucky's forearm and just rests it there, and there's heat, what the ice water couldn't offer, can feel Bucky's blood just beneath the surface of his skin, and Steve doubts himself.

This is his new life, and he got a whole week of it which he complained about, didn't enjoy as much as he should, but would now do anything to go back to the ignorance. 

“Schmidt was the leader, but he wasn’t the only mind who believed in Hydra, in what they wanted. I think, in the end, maybe he was too fanatical for even them, so when he went with the Valkyrie, he was mourned no more than a fly on a wall. It was barely a consequence, and when Germany surrendered not long after, they were smart, smart enough to hide in the shadows and give up enough of themselves that the SSR thought it was over. Even had the SSR known, it was never going to be enough, they'd spread like a disease long before, infiltrating and infecting everywhere. Germany, Soviet Union, America, England, every second person it seemed."

“What do they want?”

“That’s the problem, there doesn’t seem to be an end goal. At least with Schmidt, we knew he wanted ultimate power, to burn the Allies to the ground, but it’s just, they want organised chaos. They manipulate the world to how they want it, and they have been, for decades. They just lay dormant everywhere until something happens that they don't like, they want society to go a different way.” Bucky is silent for a while, so Steve turns to trying to feel his pulse though his skin. He can hear it, almost, now that Bucky's stopped talking, and searching for the physical beat is giving his mind something else to focus on in this deafening silence. Just as he thinks he's got it, Bucky breaks the quiet. "Sometimes, I wonder if they're demons, feeding off nothing but chaos. Other times, I think they're just doing it to toy with me personally."

There's a vulnerability to his voice that makes Steve finally open his eyes. Bucky's still staring at his socks, his mouth moving but making no sound. It's not the chewing, Steve thinks, but he's as unsure as Bucky looks right now.

"What's that meant to mean?"

Bucky stares a little longer, and there's a moment of decision in his face before he meets Steve's eyes. He shrugs, and says, "They say as much each time I catch up, and nothing more. Worse at talking than me, it seems."

“That’s what S.H.I.E.L.D does?”

“It’s what _I_ do.” It’s Steve’s turn to look at Bucky in horror, and he sighs. “Don't give me that. Most of S.H.I.E.L.D don’t think they even exist any more.” Steve wastes his air with a sharp hiss. “They need to, the world needs to believe it’s just a fairy tale, a tale passed down generations. Hydra is good at hiding when they don’t know they’re being searched after, but impossible when they do. There’s only a handful of people who actually know.”

“But why does it have to be you?”

“No one else knows, they don't understand. They didn’t live it, not like we did. Besides, most of what I do is not doing anything, it's clean up and pointless intel after, dead ends and trying to find a pattern that doesn't exist.”

“Bucky, they-, you-, you should be as far away from that as possible.”

“The last time I wasn't involved, it took them almost 25 years to do anything about it. They didn't even know, Stevie," _Stevie,_ and Steve wraps it tighter, he doesn't just want it right now, he _needs_ it, "They didn't know for 25 years. And when they did, it took Peggy and I a decade to clean it up and here I am, still, _still._ Been my life for almost 70 years now, and I'm still no closer than I was in '43. What else is there, let it happen again, to others? I can’t let that, Stevie, it’s fine, I-”

“It’s not fine, you said so yourself, you don't know if you can keep your head around it.”

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because you were never involved before this."

If it were any other situation, Steve would chase his own tail trying to work out if he was concerned or flattered that Bucky cares so much for him that the combination of Hydra and Steve sets him on edge so much Satan rises from the fire and takes Bucky's place. But it's not another time, it's now, and that's not the priority. As much as Steve believed his thoughts before, about death, how relaxing it could be, now that he's calmer, more clear headed with at least two entire breaths of oxygen reaching his brain in the last five minutes, the idea of bringing an assassin, a surety of mortality, into Bucky's home is making his heart pick up. "Now I am."

"Now you are," Bucky agrees grimly.

"What do you want to do?" He asks again.

"You need some breakfast. You're looking a bit peaky," Bucky says. "And I need some damn coffee."

If anything, that grounds Steve further, the fact that Bucky feels well enough to demand coffee, and he's somehow less worried about Bucky's sanity in this instance. It might be that it's just over shadowed with the revelation, but he thinks it's okay to push this point, at least. He keeps his hand on Bucky's forearm, and pushes down when Bucky tries to rise, and says, "That's not what I meant."

"I told you before, Tasha is taking care of it."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then they'll have to get through me first. And that won't happen," he says firmly. Steve can't meet his eyes at this, but it's a tell, it's always been a tell, and Bucky switches quickly, “You said you wouldn’t leave. You _promised_.”

“I’m not going to sit here and just wait, just let them come, Bucky. I can’t do that. Not when I know they’re still out there.”

“You’ve never run before, don’t you dare start now.”

“I’m not running from them. I’m running towards them.”

“How are you going to find someone who doesn’t exist, in a world you know nothing about?”

“Well I think if I stood on the street, they’d find me. That’s what you’re so worried about, isn’t it? Why you don’t want me to even go for a run?”

“Yes, because you're clearly still a goddam idiot, and there’s nowhere safer than here, short of Tony’s. Believe me, it’s the only reason you’re even still alive right now. Three days is three days too long for them.” Steve lets out a huff of air that Bucky mistakes for a snort and he goes quiet, quickly flipping his arm so before Steve knows it, his arm is now the one being held. Tightly, as if Bucky is scared he’ll run right there and then. “You don’t know what they can do,” he whispers.

"I do Bucky," he puts his hand on top of Bucky's, and the grip loosens slightly. "I do, and I'm not going to let them hurt you again. _That's_ a promise. But I also made Peggy a promise,” he says grimly, “that I wasn’t going to stop until all of Hydra was dead or captured. All of them, any of them, anyone who’s ever even shaken hands with them or even heard about them. If I do that, I can keep both promises at the same time.”

"No," Bucky says.

"You-,"

"No," Bucky says again, his jaw jutting out.

"We're a team. And we're strong. I'm not going to sit here, hiding out in your house each time their name gets mentioned. I want in."

"I'll come after you myself if you leave. And then you'll find out just how strong I am."

"This isn't a joke, Buck."

"I know that," he snaps. "You think I don't know that?" He uses Steve's arm to push himself up. The decision is his gaze is back, and Bucky presses his lips together for a long moment. "Just, please don't."

It's the same quiet, desperate pleading that Steve heard in the car on the way home from the VA, the one that pained him more than any sound coming from Bucky ever could and it shocks him enough to let Bucky go.

Satisfied that he’s discouraged him, Bucky walks into the kitchen towards the coffee machine. There’s a hollow where Steve's heart should be, maybe it’s finally given up at age 27 like the doctors told him it might, because he's so tired, so tired, and breathing doesn’t seem to be enough, either the air isn’t getting in or it’s not reaching his head. He can’t even find a slight comfort in that Bucky does seem to be better today. Shortly after he’s made it to the island, the hollow reaches his stomach, his bones, he feels a little like he could melt forward onto the surface until someone has the sense to wipe him up.

There is a small part that finds the irony in that their roles are reversed, that it’s Bucky who now has to bully Steve into eating, and showering, and reading.

God it must be exhausting to be Bucky, he thinks, when he notices his own eyes darting to the front door more than the page in front of him, and it’s giving Steve his second headache of the morning. He wasn’t even sure he could still get those, he hasn’t had one since the serum that wasn’t collision related, so he moves seats both to resist the temptation and keep his head. 

“Headache,” he grunts when Bucky looks at him quizzically.

It doesn’t hurt as much to watch Bucky get him a glass of water, but the shock of what he sees is enough to get him out of his seat for the first time in hours.

“Buck,” Steve says slowly, “Why do you have a handgun in your glass cupboard?”

“I have guns everywhere,” is the reply, chin out in defiance. Bucky’s gaze is hard and steely, close to the look he saw on Saturday night, a look that if he never saw again in his life, would be still be too soon for Steve.

It’s not quite murder, not yet, there’s a bit of daring, a bit of Bucky, and it stops it from being Steve’s own bomb, the same he was expecting from the past few days from Bucky.

If it weren’t so serious, if Steve was searching for Easter chocolates instead of guns, in a fun game rather than a life preserving situation, he would be amused that he spends the rest of the morning stumbling around seeking each of the hiding spots, while Bucky watches, face impasse.

After the nineteenth gun is found, sometime constituting mid afternoon, Bucky grunts non-committedly, and Steve knows he’s found them all. Or, at least, enough that Bucky thinks he could take care of himself in most parts of the house if anything were to happen.

In his tiredness, he mutters, “Didn’t find any knives.”

“You don’t even know how to use one. There’s a reason I don’t let you do the cooking, Stevie,” Bucky points out gruffly.

Steve hesitates, a second too long, just long enough for Bucky’s face to twist. He hates it, the terror, the disgust, on Bucky’s pale face, would rather the blank of the past three days. Any trace of restful sleep he might have gotten over the past week is gone, and he looks all his 94 years. And more scared than he did talking about Hydra. 

“You said nothing happened,” Bucky hisses. He moves, in a way that Steve can only think he means to claw at his own face, but when Steve moves forward to catch his hands, he snaps straight, hands clasped behind his back, and Steve gets his wish, Bucky’s face smooths into an indifference.

“Because nothing did! Nothing happened, you didn’t even use it,” Steve insists, but he’s already sure the damage is irreparable.

“Were you going to tell me?” He asks smoothly, calmly.

“Were you going to tell me about Hydra?”

“That’s different.”

“The hell it is!”

“You had a chance, Stevie, to be free of it all. It really could have been all in the past for you, if you never knew. You could do whatever you want, not have it taint you.” 

“So you were going to go off to work every day and never tell me? Lie each time you waved goodbye? Pull some classified level bullshit?”

“I wasn’t, I was going to retire, leave it all for good. Go somewhere else, that damn island or New York, if you wanted, ” he says, like it’s the obvious answer, and with such conviction that Steve is knocked down a level. 

“It still would have been lying, Buck.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well I do. We’ve never been like this, Buck, why are you starting now?”

“Because I have to take care of you!” 

Again, it’s stated like the obvious, and he finds that it’s anger that is the only thing to fuel his weariness today. Feed him enough to get his thoughts straight, to stop himself from saying another thing he can’t take back, like the knife that started this whole conversation. “I know you think that, but you don’t have to. Not all the time.”

“Where’s the proof? Huh?” Steve gapes at him, both at the bite in his voice and the sudden switch from his only just moments ago, idle behaviour. “Give me one time I haven’t been there, and you've made it through, or you’ve done anything else then let your stupidity lead the way.”

“I’m not 12 anymore, Buck, and I’m not sick. I can-,” 

“Yeah, yeah, you can get by on your own. Those words have been a real comfort for a long time, pal,” he says sourly.

They float in the air for a while before Steve’s anger processes them. “Jesus, Bucky, that's-. You just lectured me on how bad Hydra has been the 66 years, what else would you have had me do?”

“For the first time in your life, not be an idiot,” he says through clenched teeth. 

“I would have put the plane down even if you said not to. Peggy said-,”

“I know, I heard the recording,” he snaps. 

That silences Steve. He didn’t even know there was a recording, not that he’d ever want to hear it anyway. There’s not much he can say to dispute that, it’s pretty damning, and Bucky and Peggy seem close enough that she would have explained the interaction behind it.

“That’s not what this conversation is about,” he says, his own teeth gritted.

“Enlighten me, then,” Bucky drawls, just enough to spark another flint of anger.

“It’s about you lying to me.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Well you ain’t a truther.”

“What do you want me to say, Stevie? You died. You had a death wish from the beginning, and you got it, so I’m happy for you. Only you didn’t, so now we both gotta deal with it.” 

He skulks up the stairs, to the study perhaps, and Steve waits for a slammed door that never comes. He knows better than to follow, Bucky's silent rage so hot he’s sure it would burn him if he got too close. The heat might be nice, though.

Steve finally got his fight, and he’s no better for it.

The worst part is, there’s a part of Bucky’s words, not even Sam’s ‘reverse grief’ idea, that is right. Maybe, just maybe, if it had been Bucky’s voice on the other end, he might have found a different way. He’s not sure, he can never be sure now, but if he had, he could still be here today, but understanding of a world, his world, in all the ways that matter. He’s shaking, he’s not quite sure how his body has the energy to do so. It doesn’t, it quickly fades when his anger is replaced by the hollow again, when he thinks through a 66 years that might have been.

There's nothing more for him to do. He knows Bucky would make good on his promise to chase him down, and would not be kind about it, even if Steve could get past the agents at the front door, so he takes up his spot on the couch again, reaching for a blanket for real reasons this time. He stares at a spot on the page until it blurs his eyes and brings back the headache, and even when that’s not enough, he thinks of the ways Hydra could possibly hurt him more than he hurt Bucky, and himself in return.

A few hours later, enough for Bucky to have calmed, he appears, but it’s clear Bucky’s not done fighting. He scowls down the stairs, weapon in hand, apparently determined to teach Steve the ins and outs of knife work.

He knows their faces are mirrored, neither of them want to talk first about before, so Steve swings. “Howard said Hydra wasn’t going to attack me with a pocket knife.”

He misses. Bucky twitches at the words, his face still drawn, and he pleads through a tight jaw, muscles straining, “Just humour me, Stevie.”

“I’m not going to use a knife on you, Bucky.”

“Then at least learn how to get one off me.”

Steve relents, half because another verbal fight would take more effort than physically fighting, and half for the fact that if Bucky does do it again, maybe Steve could disarm him before there’s any evidence of it ever happens again. He’ll even go to Natasha, if Bucky doesn’t remember, and learn to lie better.

Bucky’s not kind about it, not gentle in his movements, and Steve can feel the power behind his blows. It’s evident Bucky is holding back, and once again, Steve’s reminded that he might not be able to overcome Bucky. Though Steve does manage to disarm him each time, even when more and more strength steals in, Bucky’s face only grows harder and harder as the time passes, until Steve can see it’s not reassuring him any, just setting him more on edge.

“That’s enough for today, I’m tired,” he tries to reason.

“Yeah, well, you’ll be tired at 3am when I try it again,” Bucky snaps. “Or if someone comes through that door, they won’t damn well care if you got your beauty sleep or not.”

“Bucky,” he tries again.

“There’s a price to everything, Steve, even knowledge, and this is your payment. We’re not stopping until I’m-”

The name hits him again, hard, and this time he uses the force to push forward at Bucky, faster than he’s sure he’s ever moved before, and before they both know it, Bucky is on the ground, pinned, both hands above his head, Steve’s knee on his throat.

Bucky's wide eyed, and Steve knows it’s only partly the shock that allowed him to be overpowered, but says anyway, “Are you happy now?”

“You left the legs open,” Bucky says, but before he can get the words Steve pre-empted he’d try, Steve adds just a fraction of weight to the knee on the throat and gently pries the knife out of Bucky’s hands.

Steve releases it as quickly as it presses, and says gently, “I’m not going to let them hurt you again. I’m not going to let you hurt me, and I’m not going to hurt you.” He stands, and offers Bucky his hand, still gently and says, “It’s dinner time, and then we’ve got to see if Peter Pan holds up to the book.”

Bucky swats his hand away, but they spend the rest of the evening in a crisp sort of silence.

Until just before the movie ends, and Steve notices the chewing has come back.

Chewing means anxious, he knows this now, but it’s only clear what about when he seems torn in the hallway.

“Bucky-,” Steve starts, but he’s either so pissed at Steve that he’s going to do the opposite just to irk him, or he’s genuinely more worried about being a bigger danger to Steve than _Hydra,_ that he doesn’t even look at Steve before going into the guest room. 

Steve curses, curses himself and any God listening, for telling Bucky, about the knife, about the Devil.

Steve sits outside the hallway for half an hour after hearing the chest of drawers scrape in front of the door. They both know it’s fruitless, as weak as a protective barrier as a newspaper, but the point is made and no amount of coaxing will get Bucky to sleep in the bed, his own bed, that night. In the early hours of the morning, more movement pulls Steve from his endless ramble of thoughts, alone in Bucky's bed, and upon investigating, it seems Bucky has moved out of the guest room to instead take guard, cross legged on the floor, at the front door.

Steve hasn’t slept, not for two nights, and he knows he’s not going to, so he gives up, deciding this will earn a message to Natasha at a more reasonable hour, and makes them both coffees. Bucky’s goes untouched, and so does Steve’s, the smell swirling his stomach. 

Without coffee, he seeks warmth from elsewhere, hoping a shower will simultaneously warm him, to perhaps start the day, to calm him, to do anything.

What it does, is give him cover and privacy, enough noise to again gasp for air, sucking in only the droplets running down his face when he thinks of Bucky’s fear for Hydra, and of his own mind. A fear Steve doesn’t quite share, nowhere near as much as Bucky. The warm water does nothing for the chill, the full body shiver, he gets when he realises they were both born in the same place. 

God knows what happened on that table, and only God. 

He shudders for breath again, when he tries to recall _anything_ Bucky said about his time, what the Commandos told him, and the scars he saw on Bucky. What’s worse, is the scars he can’t see, the ones on his mind, that Steve can know nothing about more than five letters and the pure terror pouring out of every part of Bucky. With that, the shower, being alone, he decides it’s not helping and he’s not doing so well with standing, so he finishes, red raw from heat he tried to burn out his thoughts with.

Steve deliberately takes one of Bucky’s jumpers, barely a brush of what he’d feel sleeping next to Bucky, but in this moment, it’s all he has so it will have to be enough. He gathers his sketchbook and pencils to draw Bucky as a guard simply because he has nothing else to do, and it’s only then that he notices the knife, twirling easily and causally between Bucky’s fingers as he stares intently at the door. It’s almost an extension of himself, he’s treating it with more trust than he has been Steve the past week. A knife, he knows, a simple metal tool used for destruction, understands Bucky more, can bring more comfort to him, than Steve can.

It’s then that Steve’s heart breaks in a way that the fall never did, because he never let it. But it doesn’t just break, it shatters, the cracks already strained from Bucky’s tears a morning ago. Steve jumps on it as quickly as he did the dummy grenade at Lehigh, containing it. It implodes in his chest, he can’t let it get out, not with Bucky so near. He knows how dangerous shrapnel can be in general, but in the body, so close to his heart, no, it _is_ his heart, it’s not something even he will survive for long. No matter what Erskine had to say about it. 

Maybe this is his death wish fulfilled, permanently this time.

Maybe this is the same thing that killed Winnie and George.

Bucky is alive, that’s evident by the shadow in the hallway, the movement of his chest as he breathes, the quick fingers running over a smooth blade, but not truly, not in the way Steve craves. The Bucky of his childhood, the one who went to a war, never came home, just a stranger in his body. Died, perhaps even before either of the funerals his family held for him, maybe even the day he shipped out, or earlier, in the admissions office.

Steve wants, even perhaps needs, to mourn for his friend. Maybe his heart understood that before his mind did, that’s why it shattered so abruptly. 

For the first time, perhaps in his life, he doubts his own strength. When he was sick, he knew he had none, and after the serum, he knew he could roll a tank. When his Ma died, he knew he could face a world without her because he had _Bucky_. But this?

He's not sure he has any strength for this. Hell, he can barely stand up right now.

There’s a disconnect in himself as he thinks about grieving for Bucky, just like there was for a whole three days between Bucky falling into white white white and Steve also falling into white white white. Only this time, it’s worse, because there’s a heartbeat so strong and close that dares to prove him wrong. He can’t stop the distance between himself and himself, though he’s not even sure he would if he could. He takes a deep breath, and it’s enough to make him float, away from the feelings he knows threaten to destroy him, to harm him more permanently than a plane crash.

It’s as if he’s watching himself on the stairs, watching Bucky and drawing him in the dark. It starts as a simple sketch of Bucky’s seated position, but so quickly it turns into angry black lines of a war ravaged background. Bucky is sitting in front of a door, but his own broken gravestone, crumpled by bombs or bullets not from a tank but an airplane, sits just beyond the threshold, if paper Bucky dared to crawl forward. He, or the Steve on the stairs, makes sure to capture the haunted look from the table in the black eyes, his hair neither long nor short, but a combination of each on one side. There’s no knife to be twirled, Bucky never cared for knives before, so he draws in a stick of cotton candy of all things, a shared treat all those times at Coney Island, and the last time, at a World Fair with flying cars and bright red costumes. “Enough sugar to be sweet,” Bucky had promised, for their date with Bonnie and Connie, untrue, the words melting away as easily as the candy on his tongue, Bucky melting into the night after more words about Steve's stupidity.

It’s disgusting, Steve hates it more than anything he’s ever drawn. Well, if he could feel anything right now, he’s sure that’s what he’d feel. But he doesn’t, so he keeps drawing, and when there’s no more ideas, he throws it aside and takes to redrawing the same picture. This time, the lines are harsher, and he adds something more. There’s no tears to destroy his paper, there should be, this is a funeral for Christ’s sake, but there aren’t, so he draws them in, raining from the sky, flowing down the grave, until they’re no longer tears, it’s a flood, of water or blood, he can’t be sure with just a black pencil.

It’s all black, the drawing, the night, the shadows under both their eyes, the shadows in Steve’s eyes, until black is all he can see, and darkness takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally half the size (actually the last two were meant to be one chapter that was even half the size of them individually), but good ol ao3 editing doubled it for ya! Also was so much darker than originally planned... Enjoy your *dark/burnt* waffle, (hopefully it's well worded because I sure as heck didn't double edit it), and if it's not, just add some syrup. BYO of course, unfortunately there's not enough sweet in this one, but maybe in upcoming chapters? Maybe not?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it done for good? Or did Natasha just take care of the one? Defeat one, two more grow back, isn't that what was meant to happen? Are they actually safe here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise chapter!

The darkness doesn’t leave him easily, nor for a long time. Each time he tries to surface it drags him back down, clawing him, stronger than he, stronger than Bucky. It’s not cold and wet like the water from the plane, it’s thick and sludgy, between his toes, in his stomach, almost holding his tongue over his airways so he can’t breath. Or maybe it’s just so heavy on his chest and that’s why he still feels breathless. Either way, he’s crushed into the soft firm mattress with only black to light his eyes.

Mattress. So bed, not hallway.

The thought is enough to dislodge some of the glop and let out a small groan when he runs through scenarios and decides that the most likely method of how he got here was that Bucky _carried_ him like a goddam _child_. Bucky never even carried him at his sickest, no, Steve shoved him away and only accepted him taking most his weight while still standing, leaning more like it, and hobbling to wherever he needed to go.

Seems Bucky is winning, carrying out his plan of looking after him, and taking it extremely seriously at that.

Steve will have to get back at him, somehow. 

“Stevie?” A poaching voice, perhaps from the hallway, nervously calls, and it turns out the Stevie name cloak is sludge proof because he instantly feels lighter, less confined, free enough to at least open his eyes. It is Bucky, obviously, in the door frame, he was right about that too. The tightness in his chest loosens a little, the bomb that threatens to tear through him bides its time at the sight of Bucky, not scared or intense or almost animalistic as he was when teaching Steve how to fight. Instead, he looks tentative, small, and he’s in a short sleeved shirt for the first time since Steve’s woken, metal showing all the way up to the elbow. It’s fascinating, even the little detail he can see from here, and Steve can hear a gentle whirring, almost purring, when Bucky shifts his weight and unfolds his arms. Steve tries to stop, it might be rude, and that’s another thing he doesn’t need between him and Bucky right now. Steve instead looks to Bucky’s face, trepidation all across his features, but he’s quickly distracted by how his eyes almost look blue, the startling blue that he only remembers pre-war, not the dark he’s come to expect.

“I’ll get you some food,” Bucky says, still quietly, breaking the brief eye contact, and moves out of his sight.

Steve doesn’t particularly want food, there’s a mud taste in his mouth from the darkness. It’s been two weeks since he’s had to hock up moisture he didn’t have to spit dirt out to the side of his path and he’s well enjoyed that, but he spies a glass of water on the bedside table, so he swishes and swallows quickly. It works some, enough, to clear out his mouth, his mind, and allows him to sit himself up further.

Steve is still tired, it's taken the place in his bones where the cold used to settle, but it must be well into the day as there’s sunlight through the open blinds, _open_ , so it’s either midday or later, because he can't find the source.

God, how long did he sleep for?

Long enough, apparently, that Bucky’s decided on a pasta dish and another glass of water instead of eggs and coffee. He drinks down the water, trying to rid the lingering gravel in his mouth, taking his time long enough until Bucky gets a look that says he’ll start spoon feeding him and his hands twitch, and Steve resignedly takes a bite. It doesn’t taste like mud at all, it tastes good actually, and he wonders how, seeing as Bucky doesn’t actually eat, not even to test his own cooking that Steve’s seen. Maybe it’s takeaway, but Bucky might have a fear of poison, if it’s brief even in Steve’s mind. 

He chews, savoring a flavour other than steak, Bucky had taken his enthusiasm a little too literally and Steve hadn’t the heart to tell him otherwise. That, and he would never pass up any food ever in his life. The animated eyes watch him eat, tracking him but not in the way he’s come accustomed to, this is more in a peaceful way. They shine through, no longer having to fight through tight skins and contrast with the purple shadows underneath. Bucky still looks tired, but it’s no longer his standout feature, nor is worry, not for anything other than Steve looking like he’s going to waste away in front of him from acute malnutrition.

No, that award for the most identifiable part of Bucky goes to his eyes, which in this short time, have held his gaze more than they have in the past ten days.

Steve likes them. He likes them very much, and he would like to keep them, would do anything to keep them here in the future, not just in 1943 where he last saw them.

“You gotta sleep, Stevie,” Bucky says faintly. 

“So do you,” he points out.

Almost anything, it seems.

The eyes stay but Bucky shoots him the ‘Steve’ look, which, okay, he deserves, but it looks good on Bucky, better than the quiet dread and always present fear, and likes it even more when Bucky concedes and climbs into the bed beside him. That was more than Steve was expecting, after, whenever it was, yesterday, and last night.

It’s hard to ignore now, how much time has passed, with the sunlight bouncing off Bucky’s metal arm. Last he knew it was 3am, 4am maybe, and even if it’s only midday that’s the longest that he’s ever slept in one go, since the serum. He did miss a night, two actually, he’s definitely run longer but that was usually adrenaline fueled and life threatening. He usually crashed hard, after that too, now that he thinks, but the army didn’t take kindly to soldiers sleeping longer than 10 hours unless they had a bullet in them or were halfway to heaven already.

“It’s 4 o’clock,” Bucky says, and Steve sighs again that Bucky’s picked up their silent communication before Steve has. “Think you’ve slept a good 12 hours. Been a while since you’ve done that.”

He refrains from admitting it’s probably longer than Bucky thinks, instead says, “Could probably do with some more.”

“Finish that first, then you should probably stay up a bit so you don’t end up wide awake at 2am.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and has to bite his lip from saying 'Yes, Ma', but it’s fair enough, and Bucky seems to accept the response. He doesn’t bother asking Bucky if he’s slept. Sleep, he knows, is in the same danger realm as food. He can’t really think of what else to say that wouldn’t break the comfort of the air, so he says nothing, just continues to eat. He thinks they should probably talk, not that he wants to, but he’s the one who asked for communication. That, and there is still the whole Hydra issue.

Where to even begin with that.

In the end, he doesn’t get a choice when the words pour out of their own accord. “I’m sorry,” he says, strangled, and a little surprised.

“What?” Bucky asks, just as shocked.

Steve chews. It’s too much to put into words, and it’s bringing back a feeling, a similar one from last night that he doesn’t like. “For the drawing,” he starts with. The sketch, both of them, were beside him, one in front, the last he remembers, and considering he's in his bed, he assumed Bucky would have seen it, pried it out of his lap in order to move him.

“Oh. I, well, I didn’t really understand it.”

“Neither did I, I don’t think,” Steve agrees, but he’s not sure it’s entirely true. He asked for honesty, and he's already renegging on his own requests. He'll end up a hypocrite at this stage.

But he drew a broken, bloodied _grave_ for Bucky. That meaning is fairly clear.

Bucky says no more, and Steve welcomes the silence again, chewing the warm dish as he tries to muster up the courage for the next part, trying to steal energy from the heat, from the food. These following words, at least, are true, down to his own shattered heart which hasn't mended upon waking. He's aware it's still a time bomb, but he can't remember if it actually imploded last night, if the timer is still ticking, or if he has time before the clock is even set. He needs to work it out, quickly, because he knows it's not something he'll heal from, accepting that Bucky _could be dead_ , and he hopes, no, he's down to praying now, that this is the way.

“Sorry for…” he takes a breath, “Dying.”

“Oh god no, Stevie, no.”

“No, if I hadn’t, if I listened to Peggy, if I just-,”

“Don’t,” Bucky cuts him off. " _I'm_ sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But don’t do that. I’ve been there, and you can’t let yourself think like that. It’ll tear you apart.”

“I just-,” The pressure near his heart is still _there_ , it hasn't lessened. It hasn't gotten worse, he supposes that's a good sign, but he knows shrapnel can maim in other ways.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Bucky is looking at him so earnestly, so honestly, with a look that says he understands, and maybe he does. Isn't that what happened? Just like Steve thought Bucky was dead, and isn't, Bucky thought Steve was dead, and isn't. Bucky hasn't apologised for that, and Steve would never want him to, would never accept that, wouldn't even be able to comprehend where that thought had come from in Bucky.

He _is_ sorry for the drawing. It seems rude now, in the daylight, when the darkness has both left the sky and his mind and Bucky’s sitting here, looking so-

Beautiful, is the only word he can think of, it's in front of his eyes as bold as Bucky, so he looks away.

Alive, is what he knew was the right answer, but it's not like that's wrong either.

If he could find a way, to get trapped 66 years in this moment, he would. He'd give up his own arm, and more for it.

It seems too far fetched to ask for, even after everything they've been through, so Steve settles on the idea that he doesn’t care whether there’s a threat outside or not. He’ll stay inside with Bucky for the rest of his days if he keeps looking like this.

There's only one last thing he knows needs to be said right now.

"I made a promise to Peggy that I wouldn't stop until all of Hydra was dead or captured," he starts, and Bucky's mouth slopes down in displeasure. "No, let me finish. I said that the night you died, the night I _thought_ you died. But you didn't, so I'm willing to work around that. I don't like it, you know I don't, but I won’t do anything about Hydra, not unless you’re there and you're okay with it.”

“It’s nice to hear you say that.” Bucky laces his hands together and looks at the door frame. “But Tasha called anyway.”

All the air leaves him in a rush and he tries to chase it back. He’s annoyingly short on it most of these days, can’t be wasting it, needs to ration it out better. It comes back in alright with only a slight wheeze, but it was enough to make Bucky’s head perk around in concern, so Steve tries to hide it. “Jesus, you couldn’t have led with that?”

“And miss out on a rare Steve Rogers apology? I don’t think so. My house is bugged so it’s recorded too, I have a copy forever now.”

"Good, because it’s never happening again, jerk.”

That's all Steve can manage, so it turns quiet again, and Bucky gives Steve as much privacy as he can sitting less than a foot away from him to take it all in. There's too many questions in his mind to make sense of any, to ask any.

Is it done for good? Or did Natasha just take care of the one? Defeat one, two more grow back, isn't that what was meant to happen? Are they actually safe here? Are Bucky's moods directly related to Hydra? It seemed so, but he was quiet and tense even before Natasha's visit. Is anyone else going to come after them?

Those are only the thoughts he has clarity on, there are a million swimming underneath, but Steve is not a fan of water, so he pulls away from them. Even the thoughts that are skimmed on the surface are doing something strange to him again, buzzing his hands and behind his mind, and for one horrible moment he thinks he's going to float away, right in front of Bucky, but this time Bucky is _looking_ right at him, sure to notice.

Thankfully, it's at that moment Bucky moves to push himself up higher on the pillows, his foot accidentally knocking Steve's ankle, and he's brought back down with a crash by the touch. It's followed by words that Steve has to strain to hear, to make sense of.

"I am sorry, really Stevie, I never meant to make you feel bad, I just wanted-,”

Not this again. “To protect me, yeah. But none of that anymore, alright? Not at the expense of us,” Steve cuts him off. “The food is good, the house is great, but I mean it. No more getting to decide what you think I can and can’t handle. You tell me first, and I’ll let you know which way.” Bucky stares at him, no longer peaceful, but back to scared, and a little sad. "Bucky," he commands.

Bucky's eyes flick away from him, for seconds that feel like hours, but when they find him again, Bucky nods, just a tilt of the chin.

Steve relaxes.

"Stevie," Bucky starts, "Hydra, they-"

"Natasha took care of it? Are we safe?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Then I don't really want to talk about Hydra anymore. Not right now, at least, not if you said they're not longer a problem," he says, a little sharper than he means to. He softens the next sentence, he doesn't have to try hard. "This is me telling you I can't handle it right now, alright? They get in my head too much, I just want to enjoy this without them."

Bucky still looks sad, and this time it's layered with guilt, but there’s nothing Steve can say that’s not a lie to make him feel better about it.

Maybe a distraction would be okay. At least for Steve’s sake, so he doesn’t have to look at Bucky self flagellate, he can do that in private just like Steve manages to all the time, if he’s going to at all. Plus, this is something he’s genuinely curious about, and like all the other forms of touching he’s done so far, he thinks he should ask.

“Can I look at your arm?” It does work. Bucky’s face switches from down trodden to surprise, and Steve simply shrugs. “I haven’t actually seen it, no more than the hand.” Bucky nods, but he looks a little tight lipped. “You can say no. I’m just curious.”

“No, it’s fine, but, just like this.”

Steve frowns a moment until he understands the meaning. “Yeah, of course.”

He does want to know how it affixes to Bucky’s body, he’s made no sign to take it off at any point like he knows some of the vets from his Pa’s unit could. Bucky taking his shirt off would mean seeing the scars. Scars, are inline, possibly just above, the Hydra level of not handling things right now, not when he's so raw from last night, when the bomb in his chest threatens with each heart beat.

He can handle not knowing about that, for the time being, because mostly, Steve is just amazed that the arm _moves._

Bucky spins around and puts his head at the foot of the bed, lying flat on his back so his left arm ends up closest to Steve. Finished with his meal, he sets it atop the bedside table and sits cross legged facing Bucky's body length-ways, and gently picks up the metal hand.

It’s lighter than he thought it would be, it actually feels no different to what he’d expect Bucky’s other arm to weigh, no different to Steve's own. He didn’t realise he’d made a noise until he feels Bucky’s eyes on him and looks up to a questioning on Bucky’s face. “It’s just lighter than I thought it would be. Looks like metal, is all.”

“It didn’t used to be, Tony’s real thoughtful like that. Used to weigh a tonne, the first one I got. I suppose I was used to it, until Tony got his hands on it. Each time he upgraded it, when an idea or the technology was available, or when he’d worked out a better balance he wanted between the weights and the materials he thought I’d need, I’d be tipping over the other way for days until I got used to a ten pound difference or so.”

The idea makes Steve snort a little. “Yeah, you shoulda seen me the first few weeks trying to figure out this body. Felt like a bull in a china shop. Had to relearn how to draw, Buck, keep breaking the pencils and smudged them all so bad in the process with hands twice the size.” 

He meant it as a comfort, a shared emotion, but it makes Bucky scowl a little, and Steve feels it cut just under his ribs. That’s something they’ve never talked about, not properly, and Steve doesn’t want to, but it upsets him that Bucky constantly seemed perturbed by his new body the minute he was lucid enough to understand what was happening after Krausberg. And now, apparently, still is.

So Steve aims for distraction again. He tries varying pressures, using different methods of gripping or poking or stroking, to see just what exactly Bucky can feel through it. He starts to feel a little guilty himself when it really does just seem that his arm works the same as a normal arm, except that it’s made of metal, ashamed that he still sees it as different.

Just like Bucky's other arm has a few freckles, and veins, and a small line of mismatch of scars that Steve does know about from catching his arm when falling down the fire escape one summer, and another where Billy Sullivan threw a sharp rock and it lodged in far enough Steve's Ma had to give him stitches in the kitchen, this arm has it's own individual features.

It's not one metal sheath, rather an overlapping of plates which lock together seamlessly, except when Steve bends it at the elbow, or palm, or finger, and the plates shift to accommodate. When they shift, even his eyes can barely see what’s actually beneath it.

“Don’t ask me,” Bucky murmurs, his eyes shut. Steve wonders if he’s spoken aloud, but more likely Bucky has just picked up, again, on their non talking communication. Now that he's already upset, it adds, and like a petulant child, Steve wants that back too. “And don’t ask Tony, unless you want a headache and to inadvertently be made to feel like an idiot. I know enough about it to fix and major jams until I can get to Tony, and then he does the rest.”

Steve thinks he’s got as much information about the arm as he wants to know, and is now just playing with it for the fun of it.

“Did it hurt?” He asks suddenly, after a while of quiet. It almost seems like a stupid question, but if he answers, it's all the confirmation that Bucky is going to tell the truth that he needs. When he gets no reply, he says gently, “Asked you a question,” and pokes at the lowest pressure he now knows Bucky can pick up on.

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.

“Yeah you heard or yeah it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurt,” Bucky scowls, but Steve can see his heart isn’t in it, it's disguising a sadness. 

“Can I draw it?” He asks.

“What?” Bucky's eyes fly open.

“Can I draw it?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“It helps me understand things better if I draw it. Gotta take it apart and then put it together all over again. I won’t, if it bothers you,” he says, when Bucky keeps looking at him with a look Steve can’t quite place.

“No, it’s fine. Just sometimes I forget other people see it differently than I do,” he says in a strange voice. He switches quickly, “Are you finished? Here, I’ll bring your stuff up.”

“I should probably get out of bed anyway,” Steve says but Bucky still takes his plate and two glasses for him anyways.

It's not much fuss, Steve just wants to sit on Bucky's left so he can see it, so Bucky turns on a nature show that Steve doesn't mind listening to as he draws. It's a nicer way to learn, in anycase, than sitting in a class room or staring at a book, and the voice is the strangest sort of comforting, even when talking about bizarre mating habits.

“How do you see it?” Steve asks when he’s got the outline done, and is in the process of deciding whether to start at the elbow or the fingers for finer detail.

It’s clear Bucky doesn’t want this conversation, but Steve is glad when he speaks. A little bell, the truth and confirmation bell, rings ‘progress’ in his mind when Bucky says, “A weapon mostly.” He takes a deep breath and digs for a crooked smile. “Handy shield actually. It’s bullet proof and I never have to worry about it rolling down a hill into a unit of Nazi’s roasting marshmallows and singing Kumbuya.”

Steve scowls, and starts at the elbow. Fingers are fiddly, he wants a better grasp on translating metal to paper before he tries. But he responds to Bucky's dig. “One time, Buck. What will it take to live it down?”

“Glad it never happened again, I woulda laughed myself out of the tree, probably land on Dernier and then you’d be down a sniper and an explosive specialist. Thought about selling that story to the media a few times just so there was a reenactment I could watch.”

His crooked smile has turned true by now, and it's the closest to meeting his eyes that Steve's seen. He's glad he's focusing on just the arm at the moment, otherwise he'd only get frustrated at himself for not being able to capture the look with enough justice. “Do you miss it?” He asks, hoping to get more stories that clearly amuse Bucky.

“The war?”

“Yeah.”

“Stevie, I don’t think I’ve stopped fighting this whole time,” he says again. It doesn't work, the smile fades, till it's halfway there, not enough to convince either of them. "But yeah, I guess. Things seemed so much easier then. Even this," he gestures to the living room, "Sometimes I think it'd be nicer to just have nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't remember being unhappy being poor, do you?"

Steve works on Bucky's forearm as he thinks. There were nights when he was too cold or too hot, too sick, and too hungry, to even put a description into words, but it definitely would have been unhappy magnified to the moon. Scrambling for jobs to pay rent, to buy food, watching Bucky work his hands raw, he never liked the stress of that.

"It was unpleasant, at times, but were you unhappy, Stevie?"

"No," he says, because above all, it's the truth. At the beginning, and during, and at the end, of all was Bucky waiting for him. He got through all of his worst days because he knew that. He's not sure he could be unhappy as long as he had Bucky, but-

Steve has been unhappy quite a bit in this future, even _with_ Bucky. He hadn't thought it was the future's doing, but maybe it is, if Bucky has all but admitting to not enjoying, not being comfortable with the 21st Century. In fact, he's said as much.

"The future's different like that," Bucky says quietly.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Bucky sends him the look he expected, the one that says 'You already did,' but it does nothing but calm Steve that even though he's not quite up to knowing what's going on in Bucky's head, he can at least predict the looks and some of the calmer reactions from Bucky.

"Why do you always question when I ask you a question."

"What?"

"Just like that. It's like you're caught by surprise, or something."

Bucky takes his time answering, but Steve can almost see his brain plotting out the words so he doesn't prompt him again. When he does speak, there's no trace of the planning, he just shrugs and mentions, as if casually, "I mean, can you blame me? Thought you were dead a long time, just takes my brain a while to catch up sometimes that you're actually here. That, and I sometimes I forget you kinda skipped a few years so you don't know things I just expect you to," he says the last sentence apologetically, but it still hits Steve's nerves all the same. Not in a bad way, but in agreeance.

“Mmm," he agrees. Bucky raises his eyebrows, obviously not expecting that reaction. "Sam said something, is all.” 

"Which was?"

“You might be uncomfortable, me being here.” 

“What? Why?”

Steve almost laughs at the surprise again, proof of what they were just discussing. He sombers himself with a breath before he says, “Maybe too much change for you, like you think for me. And being dead, I don’t know what it looked like in the plane, or before I woke up in the bed. Either way it’s gotta be weird, me sitting on your couch when a few weeks ago I… wasn’t. So if it’s making you nervy, you gotta let me know and I’ll go somewhere else. I’m not leaving,” Steve says when he sees the first sign, “but if you want some space, or anything, I'd rather that, than...” He feels bad when he trails off, where it leads. But it's true. He'd rather not go through the past few days if there's an alternate, more effective arrangement available.

“You know I never liked seeing you sick,” Bucky starts, slowly, testing his words. “Wasn’t pretty knowing you were so cold either, but seeing you here helps some, I meant that. You were a ghost in this house long before we got you out, Stevie, don’t you worry about that,” Bucky finishes, turning his head back to the TV to let Steve know they're done with the topic.

He thinks about the other things he and Sam talked about, and decides they can wait. This talking thing is working, so far, with neither of them pushing, and he wants to enjoy it. Steve also decides not to show Bucky the drawing, just flips the book closed before he gets the chance to ask either way, because he’s not sure what reaction it would get from him anyway.

“S.H.I.E.L.D wants you to go in tomorrow,” Bucky says suddenly. “Was meant to be Monday, for the paperwork, and all that, but that got messed around a little. Like you said, you gotta start living someday.”

He supposes there’s nothing he can do but nod, but the words squeeze his stomach with the idea that once he’s his own person again, he’s not sure how much that will include Bucky.

The future has made him weak, he thinks, not even in the lack of strength he felt last night, but in that he’s tired again, and he’s been up for less than a few hours.

Luckily Bucky seems tired as well, but insists on doing the almost non-existing dishes without Steve’s help, so while he’s distracted, Steve looks around the bedroom until he’s found what he’s looking for.

“I found all your knives, so you can quit with the guest room nonsense,” Steve says casually before going to brush his teeth.

“Not all of them,” he thinks he hears Bucky mutter, but Steve is still successful, and sure enough Bucky heads into his own room. Steve doesn’t comment on the blanket pile that does make its way into the bed, and while he doesn’t reach out to Bucky, now that he’s okay, Steve does sleep a lot closer than he used to.

Close enough to be touching, barely half an inch between them, so he’s not sure the difference in any case, but his mind justifies it as more _friendly_ than something, anything else anyway. Believing himself will make it easier to argue to Bucky, or anyone else.

When he wakes the next morning, all of him is tangled up in half of Bucky’s blankets and half Bucky himself, so his justification is for naught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend gave me a quote they use in their daily life, and I found it really helpful to my current mindset.  
> "Forward is still forward."  
> I hope you can find some use for that in your life too!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they go to leave, Bucky takes a moment longer, to just breathe, like it’s something he hasn’t done in a long time, like he’s letting go, saying goodbye.

Steve rolls away from Bucky just before he sees the first signs of waking, removing all evidence that they ended up limb to limb for what he assumes is the better part of the night, though Steve isn’t actually sure he was the one to instigate it. He knows he sleeps like the dead, he’ll definitely watch his tongue with that phrase around Bucky for the next little while, but he usually wakes in the same position he remembers falling asleep in.

Steve might like it, but it seems that Bucky is the one who _needs_ it. He doesn't want to assume, but it's also not a conversation he feels comfortable bringing up. God, give him Hydra, over _that_. 

With Bucky in a better mood yesterday, Steve lies in bed with the hope that it’s all smooth sailing from now on. Especially if Hydra was the cause of concern for Bucky, and they’ve been taken out. For now, but he shuts down that thought.

He’s half right.

Bucky wakes well, and makes coffee, even eats a piece of fruit for breakfast, but when they get into the car to finally make their way to S.H.I.E.L.D, he makes no move to drive. They sit in silence, well silent except for cheek chewing, for a few minutes before Bucky leaves, shutting the door not gently on the way out. Steve thinks he hears a small ‘sorry’, but he’s not sure because he himself groans as his head hits the dashboard. At least with the VA, they were still in pyjamas and on a comfortable bed when Steve managed to talk Bucky into it, and there wasn’t an expectation to go, not like this.

Steve just sits in the car for a while, sighing resignedly, while he tries to decide what to do, but much to Bucky’s dismay and Steve’s silent relief, Phil turns up with an apologetic but no nonsense look on his face. 

When it takes almost 10 minutes to coax Bucky down from his room, Steve tries a reverse approach which he might not mind if it ends up being true. “You don’t have to come, Bucky, you can stay here, with Phil. It’s just going to be boring, just paperwork for me, it won’t do you much good to be there. It’s safe here, you said so yourself, and I’ll be at S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“That’s not the problem,” and Steve knows this. After another few minutes Steve relents and sends Phil up, hoping he can calm him, like even the thought of him for the morning they went to the VA. 

It works, and the thought twists at Steve's stomach, because Phil's had no time to say more than three words before Bucky's belted into the back of his own car beside him, with Phil at the wheel. 

“I’ve got work to do, anyway,” Bucky sighs, slightly dejected, but almost all trace of his demeanor disappears when they start driving. An act, Steve understands quietly, and he thinks Phil notices too, eyes flicking back every so often.

As they drive into S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, Phil explains, Steve is suddenly daunted. He didn’t look on the way out, too busy looking forward, or at Bucky. He’s not only overwhelmed by the height, but the width of the building, rather the interconnected series of buildings, larger than the Empire State, even bigger than Schmidt’s final factory built into a mountainside, large enough to house a plane. Somehow, he thinks there's more than just one, at S.H.I.E.L.D. He watches water pass underneath as they cross a sort of moat to enter, and it’s only then that he recognises it’s not just a series of offices, it’s a fortress. For all the visible security measures Steve can see, he knows there’s plenty unseen, and it’s enough to lull Steve into a strange sense of calm, suddenly trusting. Bucky must think so too, because he both visibly and truly relaxes once they park.

Just in case, Steve notes their path through the building, which level they entered on, and the positions of the windows, feeling a bit like Bucky with his eyes darting so constantly. It’s barely a minute in that he once again has the thought that it must be exhausting to be Bucky, to live like this constantly.

Steve takes back his earlier joyous relief at the promise of an outing. He’s traded one inside for another, and this one is marginally less homely than Bucky’s already far from homely house. The decor is severe and bare, and although he knows the walls of windows are meant to create a feeling of openness and airity, Steve still feels trapped and if anything, a little anxious at being so visible from the outside. They’re led to a room that thankfully only has one window wall, the rest solid plaster, or whatever they make rooms out of these days. Now that he’s had the thought, he’s curious what it could be, and Bucky can tell that he’s distracted, smirking at him when the agent demand his attention back. It’s not kindly, Steve feels like he’s 14 and taking the fall for Bucky in class, and while the feeling is a pleasant flashback, the shame he still feels at the reprimand, at age 27, is not. Even worse, is that while Bucky’s conversation has been, he’ll say, varying in temperament lately, the people who speak to Steve now are stiff and formal. No doubt out of respect and professionalism, but still, it’s an uncomfortable situation after being so informal in Bucky's home since he woke.

Then comes the paperwork. Mountains and stacks, a tall tower that Steve not only gawks at what he knows to be a waste of paper, but the notion that it’s all for him, and he even slumps a little when it’s brought out. It makes Bucky laugh, though, a welcome sound that's cut short when he leaves to where he needs to be, and Steve immediately misses him. Without conscious thought, Steve notes that it’s east, for the first part, as far as his eyes can see and his ears can hear, but eventually even his skills give up. Bucky could be anywhere on the 62 levels, or three buildings, or underground.

The thought doesn’t leave his mind the whole time the agent speaks. 

The paperwork is not as bad as he thought now that it’s overshadowed with being away from Bucky, and Steve wonders if such a separation is normal, or healthy. He knows which it is, but entertains himself anyway because he’s actually _bored_ , he realises. Bored, because he understands 90% of what is talked at him, a little proud at that, and because in the end, most of his life is already sorted for him. He’s grateful of course, because he understands what it all is now that it’s in front of him, and how much work it would have taken, and that he would never have sought half these things himself. A larger part, however, is annoyed that he still seems to be being managed. Bucky, Senator Brandt and USO tours, the SSR, it’s all just been replaced by S.H.I.E.L.D. All he has to do is sign.

The one decision he is allowed to make, bizarrely, is perhaps the most important, is when he would like to announce his return. It seems to be some sort of fanfare, when they mention ‘Captain America’ which makes Steve’s blood and stomach bubble with nausea as it’s a different excitement than ‘Steve Rogers’, even 70 years later. He wonders how many more assassins would show up on Bucky’s doorstep after he shouts himself from the top of S.H.I.E.L.D's very tall rooftop, and what that would do to Bucky. He wants to prolong that, for both Bucky’s sanity and his own, so briefly considers saying never. Surely S.H.I.E.L.D has experience in covert ops, they could change the name on all 49 forms. Or at the very least he could simply assimilate back into the world by himself, laugh off the coincidence of the name and the face.

When it’s apparent he’s not going to answer, the agent surveys him once then says they’ll wait for his call.

With that, they’re given a break for lunch, though Steve’s not quite sure what else there is left to do. To his surprise, he’s not forced to eat in the room, nor is he tailed or led to anywhere else, just given directions to where he can find food, and asked to return in an hour. Bucky will have his phone, Steve didn’t think to bring his own so he can’t call, but an hour should be enough to track him down. It’s the most time he’s spent away from Bucky, besides from those god awful three days, since Krausberg, and Steve doesn't like it, the implications be damned. The familiar crushing on his chest, the suffocation, presses hard, and he knows the only release will be laying eyes on Bucky.

He’s walking, the way he heard Bucky go, along hallways filled with windows, nodding at agents who acknowledge him, of course they know him, when he runs into-

“Natasha,” the name brings a small quirk of his lips, although he’s still unsure what exactly his feelings are for her, it’s nice to see a familiar face. And, that he even has a familiar face to see. 

She smiles, and it's enough to distract him from how lethal she looks, dressed in a tight black uniform, even more so than she did on the first day. “Steve! What a glorious day to be stuck inside.”

“Doesn’t matter what kind of day it is, I’m stuck inside all the same.” He grimaces, and adds, “I’m a bit annoyed this is the one thing Bucky’s actually letting me do myself. A week ago, he would have just sorted it all out for me. But I think it’s karma, or payback. That, and he’s just a punk.”

“That indeed." The gentle ribbing seems to amuse her, though nothing about her features explicitly shows it. She's very subtle, Steve realises, and he's going to have to be at the top of his game to understand her. "Well hopefully, you don’t die and resurrect again so you only have to go through this once. Would you like to get lunch?”

“Uh, well, I was actually just on my way-”

“James is still working. They will bring food to his office.”

Steve pauses. He wants to argue, perhaps that’s just his nature, but he’s not exactly in the position of power to do so. If he’s going to be forced to eat, he may as well not be alone while he does so. This is part of his living, his new life, making acquaintances and friends, and doing something without Bucky. Also, while S.H.I.E.L.D is so clearly conducting a review of him, he can possibly use this chance to collect some intel of his own. “In that case, I’ve got nowhere else to be. Lead the way.”

She does, pointing out levels and rooms as they go, and Steve adds it silently to his growing collection of knowledge, one that he’s not quite sure how he feels about yet.

"How are you?" Natasha asks as they sit. 

"Exhausted," he admits. 

"Yes, it is quite a big day. Quite a big few days," she corrects. “In any case, James should be in a better mood now.”

“Am I allowed to ask why, or is that classified?”

“It is, but I will now tell you anyway. He was, of course, concerned for your safety from an outside perspective, but we have eliminated the threat.”

“That’s good,” he says, his face neutral, but to what point? She knows that he knows, but she’s clearly willing to play along.

“Hopefully.”

Again it’s cryptic, yet somehow more honest than if she had said yes. He decides to forgo his ignorance for answers. “He said it was Hydra?”

“It should have not been. There is no Hydra, not any more. This will take some time to investigate, there are a great many people affected and involved, but you will be safe.”

“Is that what he’s doing today? Investigating?”

“Yes.” He had expected the answer, but it makes him scowl anyway. “You disapprove.”

“Well, obviously. I don't think he should be anywhere near it, if it makes him, if it does that. He was, I’ve never seen him like that before.” 

“You are aware Hydra was not very kind to him?” She asks.

“Not exactly, but yes. Even after it happened, after Krausberg, all throughout the war, he was nothing like that.”

She purses her lips. "Perhaps because now he has more to lose.” Steve opens his mouth but she continues, “I do apologise that I was not around more, but you were rather spectacular, Steve."

"I didn't do anything," he says. "I think I made it worse, for a bit. He was better by the end, but it was more like he just woke up one day, it wasn't anything I did."

"It was you, but I know you won't believe me. Whether or not you do does not change the fact that your actions were effective."

"I didn't do anything," he insists again, because like she told him, it doesn't matter what she says, it doesn't change the truth.

"Well, he did not change into what you saw the first night, so it is you who is wrong."

"You said it wouldn't happen again," he accuses, stopped short of any other argument he had inside him.

"Because I believed you would stop it, and you did, therefore I was right."

All joy he felt at a familiar face, at a chance at learning, fades in his frustration with her. He’s not sure he can stand a whole hour of it. He very painfully, all of a sudden, misses Bucky’s quiet presence, and his different, but comforting, sort of annoying. 

Natasha knows this, and says, "He will most likely be working until your day is also done."

“He gets a lot of work for someone who is retired.”

She smiles, but it's different from ones he's seen before, so he bookmarks it. “It’s a kindness.”

“What do you mean?”

“That word. It’s a kindness, a disguise.” He has nothing to go on, so he waits for her to explain. “Choice is important for James. Not so much to him, but for him. For all intents and purposes, he is still a full time operative, works as much as me or anyone else here, but being contracted, retired, gives the pretense of choice. He will never not say no, of course, but this way we at least regulate with smaller assignments, or larger breaks in between. Every now and then I can convince him to sit out, and if I don’t believe he is well then I simply urge the Director to consider someone else. He is free to make a decision on his own, that I will never take away from him, but sometimes he needs a gentle push in the right direction.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Which part?”

“The… choice. If Bucky wants to do something, he'll kick the earth out of the way to do it. Same if he didn’t want to.”

“Perhaps he may have, in an easier time, a time when you knew him. As much as it will hurt you to hear this, the man you see in front of you, is not your Bucky. Not anymore. His ability to have his own free will was stripped of him, he has become the perfect soldier, and soldiers are not allowed their own minds.” Steve’s full stomach sinks. “Not here, he will never be forced into anything, but we have to work with the consequence that he is unable to say no. Whether it’s habit, or still a conditional response, he will do whatever is wanted of him. When he first began working, I was not here, but there are stories that he would run himself to the ground because he physically could not say no, he’d shake and seize if anyone ever suggested it, even with the therapies. And he is good at complying, and providing an appearance of compliance, as he was trained, so S.H.I.E.L.D did not realise for the longest time. But he cannot fool me, and once I told tales on him, it was glaringly obvious.” Natasha slides him the rest of her food, and it’s a comfortable move, as if they do this every week. “I certainly saw some of it for myself, similar to what you did the other night. He would go home with the few spare hours that he had rest a week, and destroy his house and his hands, with no memory of it. If I was quick enough, I could repair it and calm it before it upset him further.” 

Steve’s wondering if she gave him her food to shut him up, to stop him retaliating. He doesn’t want to eat it, his stomach is already uneasy, but it does give his hands something to do other than break the table.

“To his credit, his damage was never people except himself, even though that is the basis of his training. But it is still concerning, so I suggested the idea to the Director, who more than agreed, with the idea that we can hide it behind the pretense that he was technically an 80 year old man at the time. It is also helpful for me, to have to worry about him less. It is easier to keep an eye on him and his disposition when he is at home, rather than in the field, where there are many variables.”

“Why does it happen?”

“I told you, I’m not sure, I’m not even sure he knows. There’s no particular pattern, other than a combination of tiredness, vulnerability, perhaps extreme emotion. But there have been times when those things have been combined, or heightened, and he has regained his composure, and times where I have believed him to be none of those factors and yet it still happens. I am sorry you had to see it, so soon into your awakening. It hurts us all for it to happen, so I manage the signs the best I can and monitor him afterwards.”

He talks through a full mouth, hoping the motion of eating will help him swallow down the information. His stomach can deal, Steve thinks it too might have gotten stronger with the serum. “So you’re spying on him.” Managing him, he wants to add.

“If that’s what you’d like to call it, then yes. I will own that. But tell me, Steve, do you like the James you see? Who does not sleep or eat and will not trust his own mind. And this is the better version of him that I’ve seen. So yes, if spying on him is what it takes, I will not apologise nor feel remorse for it. If James realises the deceit, he doesn’t say or fuss. In fact, I believe it gives him peace of mind, to know that he will never be allowed to hurt someone beyond his control.”

“And S.H.I.E.L.D organised this, they’re okay with all this? Employing someone they have to spy on, that you say is unstable. They disgraced men, executed them in the army for this kind of thing, as far as I know.”

“I think there is a systemic underlying guilt from their involvement with his situation.” Steve chews, thinking through the words, but all they do is bounce uselessly around his mind, to her openly displeased face. “I’m not sure what else he would do. He’s 94, technically, but still has so much life left in him. He would perhaps lose his mind truly if he gave himself nothing to do. Fundamentally, which is just as important, he’s good at what he does. There’s not quite anyone better. He’s almost impossible in what he does, he’s effective, an incredible mind when it is in control which is always, these days. In the process he is an invaluable teacher and role model. He helped train me, and I know that you know that I am good.” She pauses again, while Steve rearranges his thoughts so she can’t see some of the more personal things he thinks about. She seems to brace herself, as if these are the hardest words for her to say. “There is, of course, the matter that he enjoys it. I don’t believe it’s sadistic or punishing, but he has found a way to turn his torment into something he can take pleasure in.”

Steve thinks about the small thrill he would get not two weeks ago, taking down Hydra warehouses not two weeks ago, even when he knew people were inside, which he justified for the Greater Good, even if he didn't believe it. That’s not something he’d ever judge Bucky on. 

“So why skirt around it, talk behind his back, using cover words and pulling guns? Why don’t you help him? Isn’t there a cure?”

“There is no cure, only management, not unless you go back in time and undo what is done. They have been helping, Steve, trying since 1968. Even then, there is not much that has proven to be entirely effective, nothing that would ever return your Bucky to you, no therapies or medications. Now we work at maintaining balance and damage control, encouraging control of his mind and providing choice, and ensuring he doesn’t regress. He is at a consistent baseline which is acceptable for both the public, his work, and himself.”

“It’s not really acceptable though. No one should have to live how, what…,” he struggles because he’s seen it, but doesn’t really know, “what he lives with.”

“I see your point. No, it is not acceptable, but there are two counter points I would like to make. The first is that, unfortunately, what you have seen is a very concentrated and severe reaction to a very unusual situation, what with you being found, quite alive. No one, no one expected that, therefore we were unable to predict the measure we would need in place. There were countless measures, and scenarios, and run throughs, believe me. So we have had to adapt. But there is still a heavy emotional toll on James, regardless if it is not the grief we were prepared for. He is not always like this, I think that is your fear. He has made a good life for himself, with good people, and has enjoyed it. You may liken it to your experience with asthma, if that makes it easier in your mind."

It does give Steve some relief, to hear the words, even if they still don't stand true for him. "And the second point?"

"I have mentioned this before. You are back, and he seems different already, in both his incident and afterwards. There was no damage, to his house or himself, and it was a surprisingly short period of loss of control. Perhaps you can assist in ways that we can not.” Steve still looks unhappy, he knows this, because she leans back and adds quietly. "He is only working for a short period today, in the sense that you think, it will not affect him too negatively, I have made sure of it. The rest of his time he will spend working through the last few days, and why it happened, with others who are trained to help him. It's routine, and unavoidable, but coincidentally there is also work for you to do today, which is distracting enough. Obviously, not now that I have told you, but it fooled you for the morning, yes?"

That, at least, explains the car. Natasha isn’t finished though, and he shrinks a little to be on the receiving end of her tone.

"I have heard about your own reaction to the suggestion, Steve, don't think I am unaware of the VA. I'm also aware of the prejudice for you, but know this now, and learn it early on, mental health is as important as your physical health and you should never be ashamed of anything you experience."

Steve thinks her statement is wrong. He was ashamed of his physical health, before the serum, ashamed of being such an obvious burden. But now he is cured, both his physical health, and his mind too. "Bucky seems to think so too," he notes, instead of actually answering what he knows she wants. 

"He does, but in relation to anyone else, bit himself.” Steve looks at her curiously, so she explains, “Have you noticed he wishes things for you, but thinks them too much for himself?” He’s still looking at her, not quite sure, so she sighs. “How do mealtimes go?”

Oh.

“It’s more complicated, but that is an instance where he will ensure you eat regularly and properly and fully and will all but cause a commotion to do so, but won’t extend the same principles to himself. Frustratingly, I know you are quite the same, about him. You are wanting to help him for the things you can't recognise in yourself."

He scowls at the false accusations about his mind. It's bad enough, coming from Bucky, but now? From someone who barely knows him, well, it's a good thing his hands are still busy fiddling with the remainders of Natasha's lunch. She simply watches him, unperturbed.

Then, she goes so serious, and still, in a way that alerts him. Natasha leans in, and so does he, and her voice drops low, low and quiet and a little sad. “I tried, Steve, I really did. And I will continue to. I understand if you do not think it is enough, that I have done wrong by him. Just know that. Also know that I believe you can do better than me. You can help him, and he can help you. It is no coincidence that neither of you died when the world suggested it, I am sure."

He nods, but they stay silent, and for all that Natasha has told him, he feels none the wiser. Just sadder, and a little guilty, and suddenly sick of S.H.I.E.L.D. There’s too many emotions, they’re trying to cram into his chest, jostling the the shrapnel bomb already lodged there, and squeezing his lungs.

“You seem to care about him a lot,” he thinks aloud, wanting to talk, to think about anything else than his current emotional distress.

That, possibly, could be the very worst subject for his heart in his current state. Bucky does call him an idiot often, and right now, it actually seems justified.

“I do, but not in the way I think you think.”

“No, he tried to explain it, I didn’t mean to assume, I just… I’m not sure. I still don’t think I understand.”

“Which part?”

“I don’t know. In my day,” Steve grimaces at the phrase, “Or maybe it was just me, it was all so serious. You went steady with the one girl, got married young and stayed together till you died. It doesn’t sound so serious anymore. Goes a little against all my morals, what I know.”

“I see. Fundamentally, James is my friend. Do you understand that part?”

“Yeah, but he’s my friend, and I don’t do what, I think, you two do.” He’s flustered, but she doesn’t seem to be. He's desperate to end this part of the conversation, but on the other hand, he's glad he can sort it out, not with Bucky. Even if Bucky will find out, eventually.

She studies him a moment, her lips twitching, not in amusement, but in refrain. “What is it you think we do?”

"I, uh-"

"You can use words which seem familiar to you, if that is helpful. I have heard them all."

“Necking, without the courting.” And she laughs, a genuine laugh, while he sits there flushing in his own mortification, and his own words sink in. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

“That is my job, Steve. I shall use this information against you when I most require,” she says, and it’s now a _giggle,_ like a school girl’s. It’s terrifying, in a way that Steve has to work to suppress the shivers down his spine even though the topic is, somewhat, a pleasant one. “But no, I will not tell him. I suppose, from an outside point of view, yes, inherently, that is correct. But not, I suppose, for only sexual gratification. If that’s what he wants, then I am happy to oblige, but it’s not that often, if you were wondering.” Steve flushes further, he didn't think that was possible, because he was curious, but also wants no part in those thoughts. She continues, after she lingers on the pink of his cheeks, “If he wants a shadow in the corner, or a card partner, or to be left alone, I will do all those things. It's just a reminder that someone cares, and he should care about himself. And I do not wish him to be alone, I’m afraid of what he thinks when he is.” 

“And what does he give you in return?”

“Does he have to give me anything?”

“A relationship should be based on communication, and balance.”

“I love James. He gives me himself, in whatever form that is. I am not disappointed by any of them.”

Steve looks away, scrambling for enough breath to dilute the red in his cheeks. Natasha lets him, so he takes the time now to simply watch the people come and go, some who make a start at him, eyes darting when they realise they’ve been caught, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of them, simply watches.

“So you’re not married?” Her eyebrows raise. “I mean, do you, can you-,” Well, there’s an annoying comfort, at least he hasn’t lost his inability to talk to girls in the future.

“You can love more than one person at a time, Steve.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I didn’t say that.” He groans, out loud, and it makes her smirk a little. “It does not affect James if I do, if that is what you are worried about. Nor the other way around.” He still seems to be visibly struggling with the idea because she says, “Perhaps it is a modern idea, or perhaps it is just who we are as people. But it works for us, and I believe James is better off for it. Do you disagree?"

"I don't think I know, or still understand enough, to comment. And even if I did, it's not my place."

"If you care for him, then it is absolutely your place. But how about, knowing what I have told you and what you know yourself of his past, if I phrase it like this; our relationship gives James the option of choice. Not just a choice, no, but the _option_ of it, which above all, is the most incredible thing he could ever have."

It doesn't clear it up for Steve, not really. It's strange really, that this seems to be the most difficult idea for him to wrap his around in the future. And he's learnt about touchscreens and holograms. “Does that not get lonely?”

“For me, no.”

“You think Bucky is lonely?”

“Do you?”

Another question, but he thinks he is beginning to see why she does it. It’s vexing, but it allows him to form his own opinions, in a world that is already telling him too much about change. “I think if I was him, I would be lonely.”

“Yes.”

“Was there ever anyone else?”

“A long time ago, I think,” she smiles sadly.

Natasha looks at her watch, it’s a pointed enough gesture that he knows their hour is up, and he feels more raw than he was signing all those papers. She offers to walk him back to the office, to which he doesn’t decline, even though he’s sure he knows the way. She lets him lead, and in that moment Steve understands a little of how it must be for Bucky, to have someone there, who seems to already know what you want, even if you didn’t know yourself.

“How are you adjusting, besides from your concerns about James? Is the future everything you think it would be?”

“I’m not sure I ever gave it much thought. Was too sick growing up, never really thought I’d make it past age ten, then fifteen, or then the war. I let Bucky entertain the idea, but I guess I didn’t really care too much for a world I wasn’t going to be in, as long as the people stayed alright.”

“And do you think they have?”

He looks to her, and takes his time to answer. He knows what she’s asking, and is somehow surprised that he knows, and believes, the answer. “Yeah, I think so.”

Another genuine smile. “Ask James to take you for Khachapuri after you are done here. He will like that. He will need comfort tonight, too, and I think it suits you well also to provide it,” she mentions as she walks away, and Steve blanches at her boldness. He takes a deep breath, pushing down the panic, with the reminder that he’s most likely not going to get disgraced for the idea. But he still doesn’t like the assumption, on Bucky’s behalf. He's done a good enough job of keeping his wrong from touching Bucky, purposely ignoring the past few nights, and he's not going to compile it onto all the other troubles Bucky's already dealing with. 

That, and even if he had been hoping for a job with S.H.I.E.L.D at any point, he’s clearly a terrible liar.

With a sigh, he heads back into the room where the afternoon turns into meeting the therapist that Bucky said would happen, what seems like an eternity ago. Steve is on edge when they say the words, and in a bad mood the moment the Doctor walks into the room because of his experience with the VA, but it's sadistically comforting to know that somewhere in the building, Bucky is likely sitting through the same thing. 

And therapy doesn’t ask for dead body descriptions or his reaction to loud noises, like the VA. It turns out the man wants nothing more than to talk. To get to know him, as Steve, and not Captain America. There are no questions about the plane, which Steve almost cries with relief at, and he’s careful not to mention Hydra in case that gets added to the inevitable, so instead Steve finds he mostly talks about Bucky. Not the past few days, for all Bucky might have his own therapy he's not going to tattle on him like that, but just in general, in a way he can justify, seeing as he doesn’t know anyone else. The man’s face gives nothing away, even he is better S.H.I.E.L.D than Steve might chalk up to be.

He finds it's not as painful as a penicillin shot, far less interrogative than Natasha's gaze, no more daunting than speaking with Sam, minus the lead up. In a way, it was almost nice, to just talk, or not talk, and not feel exposed by his own thoughts.

The Doctor asks if they can do this again sometime, or if Steve would like to talk to someone else. Like the decision with the identity reveal, Steve sits a while thinking through his options, unsure, while the man watches. In the end, he asks if he can think about it, to which the answer is yes.

And it’s done. That’s it.

And then Bucky is there waiting.

He doesn’t ask how his day was which is good, because Steve doesn’t want to talk about it much. It’s only when they reach the car, that Steve speaks.

“Awww, yeah,” Bucky’s face goes fond at the suggestion for Khachapuri as they leave, this time with no agents. “It’s a bit much, but it’s like home, in a dish.” 

They drive and Steve takes the time to look at Bucky. He put on an act for Phil, but now, it seems genuine. Whatever therapy he did, without a looming threat of Hydra, it seems to have relaxed Bucky.

There's still something he needs to clarify.

"What'd Phil say to you to get you in the car this morning?"

"What?" Bucky seems genuinely surprised, again, and it makes Steve fight to hide a smile. In the end, he doesn’t repress it, even though the words don’t match his expression.

"I tried for 15 minutes and you wouldn't budge," Steve leaves out his newfound knowledge that Natasha told him Bucky was unable to refuse anyone, "but Phil came up for all of 30 seconds and whatever he said, worked. Helped," he corrects. Bucky's still looking at him, both in trepidation and confusion, so he shrugs and looks out the window to explain. "Just wanna know so next time I can say the same thing earlier on, save us both." Time, frustration, anxiety, he doesn't say those things because he's sure Bucky knows. 

“Sorry, it’s not-, I’m not always that bad.”

“It’s not bad,” he lies and Bucky grunts. “It’s just different. Bucky, two weeks ago you’d never have done that, alright?”

"I-, no, that wasn't you. It was,” he sighs, struggling. “Logistics, and stuff. I don’t like not being in control much. Was just agents and cars and traffic reports, you couldn't have known any of that," he adds carefully. 

Steve just nods, and accepts it, because really, there's nothing else he can do. Choice, Natasha had mentioned, was a big thing, but hidden in her words were also the idea of _control_. That one Steve can partially relate to, but not to the extent that it seems to affect Bucky.

As they order, Bucky’s hands in his pockets, he questions, “Tasha put you up to this?”

“Does that bother you?” Steve asks, because he knows it will make Bucky laugh to hear Natasha’s words.

It works, enough to bring the smile back to Steve’s face. “Nah. I like these. Haven’t had them in ages.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t really cross my mind. Not filed under important.”

“What is?” At the confused look, Steve asks again. “What is filed under important, in your brain?”

Bucky looks at him strangely for a moment, but then their food is ready.

They don’t go straight home, much to Steve’s pleasure, but Bucky still pulls out caps and sunglasses, even when Steve explains that S.H.I.E.L.D has offered to let Steve decide when he’s ready to face the world. A small part of him wonders if that’s a situation where Bucky exerted his authority, or if the Bucky over the past few days scared them as much as it did Steve. Either way, he’s grateful, and it seems Bucky is too. They go to a park to eat, it’s not a part of Washington that Steve knows, but he doesn’t really know any of it. It’s different from the green behind Bucky’s house, but not jarringly so. It’s just a park, and he’s sitting here, eating dinner, with Bucky. 

For all that the world has changed, and the two people in it, enjoying something simple like this with Bucky, has not.

For the first time, he almost seems, dare Steve say it for fear of foreshadowing something awful, _calm_. It’s more than that, it’s almost happy, though the entire situation has Steve feeling nostalgic. When they go to leave, Bucky takes a moment longer, to just breathe, like it’s something he hasn’t done in a long time, like he’s letting go, saying goodbye.

He wishes he could do the same, relieve the tightness in his own chest, finally take a breath that fills him to his toes, but for now, he’ll accept that it’s at least a possibility for one of them. A piece of broken heart bleeds out a little in his chest bomb, when he's still awake as Bucky rolls into him, relaxing further in his sleep.

It’s only then, that Steve realises it’s Thursday, and they didn’t go see Peggy.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're telling me," Bucky says slowly, "That all 90 pounds of Steve Rogers that could barely wrangle Gracie Barnes when she was eight years old, used to dance around in the dark in queer bars in order to paint a few flowers better?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just doing this for fun. Mistakes will be made.
> 
> *edit - I just meant that in a general story telling way, but I mention cronuts in this and turns out they weren't invented until 2013. Well TOO BAD. I'll be damned if Lil Stevie Rogers, poor as a pauper and ill of health, didn't gaze wonderingly at the bakery shop window each day on his walk to school, mouth salivating so bad he thought he might drown. Sure, Bucky offered to steal a pastry on occasion or two, but Steve's moral compass was too north for that. And if Bucky brought him warm goods sometimes when he was too sickly to leave his bed, well, Steve wasn't going to argue with that.

Friday morning brings a tense moment when Bucky rolls over to check his phone first thing, a few messages from Natasha, Steve can see when it tilts up. He pauses, and Steve holds his breath, waiting, waiting painfully, but after a few beats but he just gives a large sigh and rolls onto his back, his forearm resting on his head. 

“You feeling alright?” Steve tries tentatively, a few moments later. 

“Yeah," and it sounds like he means it. He turns his head towards Steve, peeking out from under his arm, a little graciously, a little sheepishly, "I’m sorry, Stevie. I really am.” 

Steve says nothing in return. It will get them nowhere.

Instead they lie there, a peaceful sort of silence as Steve, already awake for hours, lets Bucky take in the day as he’s ready. 

Steve wonders how to ask about Peggy. He knows Bucky thinks routine is important, but there’s no part of him that wants to wait another week before he sees her. Even more so, he wonders how to ask for some time alone without offending Bucky. Or highlighting that there's something he doesn't want to share, when only weeks ago, there was barely breakfast meals and hangnails that didn't go unknown between the pair. Even when Peggy was involved.

Bucky, it seems, has other plans. "Did you want to try out the paints or something today? I noticed you haven't touched them, but you seemed fair pleased when you opened the package."

Now _that's_ enough to distract him from a half formed military grade tactical plan.

Steve had been curious, but other, well, matters got in the way. Matters of a larger scale, more important, but looking at Bucky right now, that almost seem like a distant memory with how settled he looks, allowing the mattress to take him, no stares, no chewing, nothing but pure and morning Bucky.

There was also the smaller issue that he didn't particularly want to try it on the coffee table, or the couch, and outside was recently off limits. But now that Bucky's mentioned it, the desire is there, yearning like the ache between his arms where Bucky rolled out from, almost too hard to ignore. But one Steve can do something about.

He might have to take care of his stomach first, which not so quietly agrees with him. 

"Right," Bucky says, with another sigh of tired, and responding to the call to start the day. A few more packages line the hallway today, long and slim, but when Steve looks them over, they're nondescript in their packaging, with no note either. 

"Tony?" He calls into the kitchen where Bucky is by the coffee machine. 

Bucky shuffles awkwardly, just a small shift, and with a forced casual he admits, "Uh, might be Tasha, actually. I think it's an easel, you can use one of the island stools until we get another, but they should be an okay height for now."

A small wave of guilt washes through Steve, dam gates open when he thinks of all the thoughts he had about her which she’d heard and clearly chosen to ignore, instead helping Bucky and buying Steve presents. 

"You talked about me?" Perhaps, like Tony, she’d grown with Bucky, stories of Captain America. There is also the photo by Bucky’s bed, ignored by them both, but maybe not Natasha.

Bucky shrugs, as if it is obvious. Steve supposes it is, and feels the familiar heat of pink cheeks when he thinks on their conversation yesterday. Bucky notices with a small frown, but doesn’t question. "She's Russian. She likes beautiful things. Might want a commission at some point, my guess is."

"That's… nice of her," he settles on.

"Just don't tell anyone. Her reputation will be ruined," Bucky says slyly, and Steve understands how Natasha can ignore his bad thoughts about her. She’s probably had a lot of practice ignoring everyone else's. Except Bucky's. "Do you wanna set it up in the bedroom or study? For light, or whatever it is that you need."

"Uh, whichever suits you."

"I ain't the one painting. You can put it wherever. I just assumed with the big eastern windows, and you being an odd sort, early riser and all."

East wouldn't exactly be the best lighting, especially not in Bucky's room, he almost points out, but cuts himself short. There’s an allure, of being able to paint while listening to Bucky’s heart beat, the same calm as when he sketches when Bucky’s napping. He doesn’t mind just watching Bucky sleep when he wakes early, but it’s only slightly weird, and he’s been getting restless lately with how much nothing he had been getting up to. "Well, if you're going to be working and it's classified, I guess it'll have to be the bedroom," he prides himself in his brains.

Bucky doesn’t spot the lie. "Alright. We’ll sort it after breakfast. Come eat."

“Are we going to the VA again?” When Bucky startles, Steve just bites into his toast and says, “It’s Friday.”

“We might not get sunshine like this for a while, thought you might want to paint.”

“I can do both,” he says, with a pointed look.

“Nah, I’m good. I actually,” and turns around to make another cup of coffee, “I didn’t want you to get talked out. Sometimes too much is not actually all that helpful. And S.H.I.E.L.D said the VA might not be good for you. Not yet,” he says offhandedly.

“I-, yeah, I think that too. But you can still go. Without me.”

Bucky purses his lips, but just says, “We’ll see.”

“But if you need to-,”

“Stevie,” Bucky cuts him off with words and a pointed look. “I’m good for it. S.H.I.E.L.D is very on top of those sorts of things, especially when it comes to how Captain America gets garroted while asleep in a bed with a man.”

Steve ignores the double insinuations. “Does it help?” He asks tentatively.

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. But it happens.”

“Bucky.”

“I mean, I guess. Sometimes more than the VA, because the therapists at S.H.I.E.L.D actually know about the stuff I’m thinking about, sometimes less because I don’t really want to be thinking about it all the time, would rather be just a generic face in the crowd.”

“You seem in a better mood.”

His face falls, “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s not that, it’s more that, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.” 

They stare at each other a moment, Steve with a horrible sinking feeling that for the first time, in a very long time, he feels a bit awkward around Bucky. He doesn’t get a chance to scrutinise Bucky’s face because he turns his back, and starts to wash the dishes. He takes Steve’s plate before he can offer, leaving Steve feeling as useless as ever, so he heads over to the hallway with a thanks and moves the items upstairs. Seeing as they’re doing nothing else today, he may as well get set up.

The other package from Natasha turns out to be a small and plain bookcase that they have to assemble themselves. It’s not hard to do, it comes with all the screws and tools, but he’s yet to see how the flat, thin package will look like the picture that slipped out. 

“Does all furniture come like this?” Steve asks, turning the instructions up and around.

“Not always. It’s a big thing though, people enjoy it, makes them feel accomplished, I think. Holds their hand, a bit, and they can say they made it themselves at the end.”

Steve ignores the comment, the slight hurts he doesn't think Bucky meant for him, and instead mentions, “I can’t read whatever this is,” he sighs, trying to remember if whatever this language is was on Bucky’s list. He decides it is.

“It’s Swedish, and no one understands it,” Bucky flips through and hands it back, where there are, in fact, English instructions. “Also there are pictures, that should be your thing anyway.”

It barely takes a second, and Bucky’s perception be damned, Steve is a little proud. He has never made a bookcase before, never made anything that wasn't on paper. He would have been too scrawny to even hold up one end of the light wood before the serum, and after, well, he didn’t go to Europe to be a carpenter. Steve assumes the idea is that it's for supplies, as Bucky sets it alongside the wall, next to where Steve puts the easel which was just as easy to assemble, and fills it with all the supplies Tony gave him. Bucky brings up a pot plant and his sketch of Peggy, and places it on the shelf too, a nice touch. 

"Well?" Bucky asks, a little impatiently. 

"It's nice. I'll text her thanks."

It is nice, Steve thinks. Bucky might like open spaces, but this doesn't seem to cramp the bedroom, no walls, no suppression, just makes it seem a bit more, lived in, more homely, at least for Steve. He feels more relaxed, he knows it's because art calms him but he knows it doesn't Bucky, so he hopes it's alright he's intruding on his space, and that perhaps Bucky can see the allure of the homeliness. 

"That's not what I meant," Bucky huffs. "Aren't you gonna do something?" When Steve just stares, he huffs again, "I keep telling people you're good, they're going to want to see it."

Steve looks to the window again. "I-, I don't really know how to use a lot of the stuff," he confesses. "Only took the few classes, you know that, and it's bound to have changed by now. I don’t really want to waste them."

"Oh," Bucky looks saddened, and oddly a little guilty, at Steve’s words. "Nah, that bit's easy. We'll just watch a video, then you can give it a go."

Bucky comes back with a small flat TV which he calls an iPad. They lie across Bucky's bed, facing the window, on their stomachs with their ankles hanging off and pillows under their stomachs, like they used to with books and homework. But it's not 1932, it's 2011, so instead, Bucky finds some films, videos he calls them, on the paints and pencils that Steve had been given. After the first few, when they keep hearing the same words over and over again, he gives Steve a pointed look. 

It's not that hard, he feels a bit like the idiot Bucky keeps calling him, having even said anything in the first place, and now he feels self conscious at the thought that Bucky's going to watch him stumble over the first few strokes. When he sneaks a glance back, Bucky seems to be tapping on the screen iPad, almost typing, eyes glued elsewhere, so Steve sighs, and begins. 

In the end, he doesn't even care what it looks like, just how it feels, and that’s peaceful, and familiar in the way that nothing has so far. It rids him of his thoughts, his doubts of Bucky, his concerns, his worry, and the past few days, and time blurs. He has no concept of the world around him, not the city he's in or the year that is, paint strokes matching Bucky’s even breathing. He doesn’t even notice that the breathing gets closer and closer, until Bucky’s phone is under Steve’s nose, and he’s asking if Steve wants anything else. 

"What do you mean?"

"It's a shop. Do you want anything else?"

"You have a shop,” he pauses, “In your phone," Steve says slowly, because at long last, this has to be the lie that gets him laughed at when he believes it. 

"Internet," Bucky waves his hand. "Think of this like, the classifieds, or a catalogue. You pick what you want and they'll send it right here. I'm not pulling your leg, I swear." Steve is hesitant still, until he adds, “Fine, do it then, and prove me wrong.”

Steve stares at him a moment more, knowing the mask could very well be a product of a long service with S.H.I.E.L.D, but when Bucky’s face breaks into exasperation, he concedes, not without an accompanying noise. There’s more tools flying beneath his thumb than Steve saw in the studios in Manhattan combined, a few things he wouldn’t mind trying, that he saw on the videos, but he blanches at the price and hands the phone back. "I'm good with what I got," he speaks into the painting in front of him.

"Why?"

"I don't need them."

"It's not about that. It's if you want them."

"Bucky, it's fine. Really, I can get by-"

"Don't." Bucky cuts him off sharply. "I meant it when I said anything you want Stevie. Steak, paints, a dog. Whatever." Steve is shifting in his stool by now, so he sighs and says, "Look, I owe you a few birthday presents anyway."

"You don't owe me anything," Steve says, not even bothering to disguise the small of his voice, staring at the canvas so hard he might burn a hole through his hard work, because it’s wildly the opposite. There’s no words he can even think to convey how wrong Bucky is. 

"Fine. Well, you owe me then. So pick three things. My life and well being depends on it," and shoves the phone back. 

This time, the prices are hidden, but he can remember some of them so he avoids those. He picks a different set of brushes, some coloured pencils and a new tube of paint randomly before giving it back to Bucky. He notices Bucky adds a few more things, things he must have lingered a little too long on, but presses his lips and ignores it. For all Steve is uncomfortable with it, it might be nice, and Bucky is being so _Bucky_ right now, he wants to hold onto the feeling, the being, and not ruin it by arguing. He goes back to his canvas, ignoring Bucky when he mutters, “Nice to know you can actually hold your tongue.”

When a sandwich appears on the bookcase Steve dares to look at the time. Bucky’s made no further move with his own day. He keeps his eyes on his canvas, and his voice steady and says, “What I think I was trying to say before, in the kitchen, is that you don’t gotta change your life around me. If you need-, if you wanna go to the VA and I don’t, you can still go. I’m not gonna run away and I’m not going to burn the house down while you’re gone.” _Probably_ , he thinks. As long as he stays away from the dryer or the oven.

“Well that wasn’t a fear of mine before, but it is now,” Bucky scowls, but Steve can hear the indecision where there was only resolute before.

“Go see Sam,” he urges, as he turns. “I’ll just finish this.” 

It was actually easier than Steve thought, he had been prepared to actually argue this further, but Bucky changes easily, and reminds Steve that he has his phone on him. And so does Sam, or Tony if he needs, and by the time he mentions Natasha he thinks Bucky might be about to talk himself out of it.

“It’s fine Bucky. I’m not gonna move from here, I swear."

Bucky gives him a once over, but thankfully nods, and picks up his keys and jacket. 

"Can you buy me a donut while you’re out?” Steve calls out after him, just for the fun of it.

“They’re called cronuts and no, they’ll rot even your teeth. Those don’t grow back, even with the serum.”

Steve grins at the comment, and holds his face until he hears the garage door shutting and the only sounds left are his thoughts and a slight buzz of electricity. It drops, so severely it’s almost whiplash on his own muscles, as he picks up his brush to face an afternoon without Bucky.

It’s awful.

The house is too quiet, Steve doesn’t want to paint any in the silence, and there’s no music that would suit his mood at the moment. His 40’s music, too nostalgic, the new age, too foreign. He slightly regrets pushing Bucky to leave, and for the second time he’s hit with the knowledge that his sudden inseparability is not normal, or healthy. Which is why he has to keep doing it. An hour, that’s all it is. An hour, plus the drive too and from the VA. He didn’t time it last week, but surely it would add no more than half an hour to the time. He can do this, and it’s evidence, in case anyone else catches on. He tries to paint some more, extra evidence for only Bucky’s knowledge, but he’s not in the mood anymore. 

In the end, he just sits in the reading chair in Bucky’s room, watching out the large window, to the lake. He can see lives carrying on, unknowing that they have an extra set of eyes on them. He holds in the comments, the questions he has, where he would normally tell Bucky, holds in a laugh at the moments he would usually, but stops short at one scene.

Two men. Just walking around the lake. He’s quite sure, no, he’s positive, that they’re both men, and for all Bucky said it was okay these days, it’s the first time he’s seen it. Obviously not hand holding, he’d seen queers before, but it’s the first time he’s seen it in the goddam sunlight, with other families around, and he all but holds his breath when their lips meet ever so briefly.

It’s weird and rude, almost as weird as watching Bucky sleep, but he’s worried if he looks away it’ll disappear, this whole new future of possibilities where no one else has batted an eyelid at the scene before him.

Steve stays stuck at the window, long after the couple disappears, lost in a day dream. It's clearer than a dream, it's almost like memories, of what his own future could be like now, though not the way he once imagined it with Peggy. She'd warmed his heart and given him a chance, both to be great, and to be normal, but all he could give her was half a response, forced at best. 

When he hears the garage door open, he runs quickly to the bathroom and splashes his face to rid the red, and settles back onto the stool. Bucky’s fiddling in the kitchen, enough for Steve to actually add a few more lines to the picture, and is mid stroke when when places a glass of water on the cabinet. “Thanks,” he says, pretending to be preoccupied, when he hears Bucky fall forward onto the bed with a soft thump.

When Steve turns, Bucky is lying face down on the bed, his hair fanned around him. Steve almost chuckles, he just needs a bit more grime and stink and he could be home from a day on the docks, or later, the factory. “Still breathing, buddy?”

He gets a soft grunt as answer, and it does make him laugh this time. This, this mood, Steve knows how to handle. Which is by ignoring Bucky until he speaks first. “I gotta take time to become a human again, Rogers,” he’d say, back in Brooklyn.

So he keeps painting, and the next time he looks back, Bucky is still sprawled on the bed, his mouth is free of the mattress but his cheek isnt, eyes tilted toward Steve, watching him paint. Again, Steve takes a moment, a small moment of shock by how natural this looks, and pushes down the longing it makes in Steve to see him how he looked before the war, with no trace of the past week, or 66 years. Not a longing for that time, but one for the future. 

"Whaddaya think?" He tries, when he finds his voice.

"All them videos and that's all you come up with?" Steve scowls a little. "I actually think you're using the paint wrong."

"Like you'd know," he shoots back but feels a little despondent, inspecting the picture. Maybe he had been, though he’d tried to pay attention to the videos. 

"Yeah, here I'll show you," he hears from behind, and before Steve has time to understand what Bucky fully means, there’s only half a tube of lilac left in the tube, the other half being on Steve.

He's only taken off guard for a moment, longer than normal, but his body hadn’t been expecting a fight, before he's grabbed his own tube and is throwing it back. 

Only he misses, because Bucky is quicker than he thinks, he remembers, and paint is hard to actually throw, let alone he'd never had a good arm anyways. Not one to be beat, Steve tries again. Unfortunately, so does Bucky, and time whirls, faster than Bucky ducking away from him, landing more paint on Steve than he gets on Bucky. When Steve figures out that the easiest way to win a paint fight is not to actually throw, but smear your hands and land blows, that’s the tactic he goes with.

Apparently, Bucky had been holding out severely in the knife lessons, dodging and weaving away, yet still landing his own light hands that do nothing but decorate in bruises of paint.

When Bucky tackles him to the floor, for the first time in almost 18 months, Steve feels normal in his body, because, like it had always been for as long as he can remember, in a fight, Bucky still kicks his ass. He’s a little surprised by it, a little breathless from the faux fight after days of sitting, maybe from being quite quite on top of Bucky, surprised enough that he finds himself flipped onto his back and in a light choke hold with two paint soaked fingers up his nose.

“Uncle, jeez Buck, Uncle,” he splutters out, tapping red onto the forearm around his neck.

Bucky laughs, again, a welcome sound that he hadn’t heard, in _so_ long, and gives Steve’s hair a colour filled ruffle before letting him go.

“Still got me beat,” Steve laughs, trying to unsuccessfully wipe the paint out of his nose as he stands. Short of sticking fingers to his brain, that’s going to take some blowing, which he’s not going to do on Bucky’s carpet.

“You did ask,” Bucky points out, and Steve notes under all the paint, he’s almost glowing. Glowing and careless and relaxed in a way that Steve only thinks in his dreams, because it was no longer when he was awake. It’s a stark contrast, and a welcome one. "Well, guess I better add to the order now."

That, he might not mind, because they did waste rather a lot of paint and it was all Bucky’s fault for once, who's still not done, and as Steve stands, he’s pushed lightly into the wall. He keeps his hands up and stops himself short of leaving a Steve sized imprint on the white paint, amongst the brights of blue and red and orange splatter across the wall where either of them had missed. 

“Buck,” he groans, when he turns away from the wall, and sees the damage on the carpet, the clothes, the sheets, he thinks in horror.

When he asks where the cleaning supplies are, Bucky simply looks at it a moment, a little forlorn in his expression but says, "I don't mind it. Abstract’s not really my thing though, so if you want to turn it into an actual picture, go ahead," and turns to the bathroom. Without a door, Steve looks away, and goes to look for some soap and cloth anyway. 

"Leave it, Stevie," Bucky laughs, again, again, please keep laughing forever, when he's finished in the shower, drying his hair while watching Steve attempt to scrub paint from the carpet. 

"Your Ma'd kill us," he says exasperatedly, not mentioning the strapped knuckles they got for a similar tussle in school. 

"She's been dead a long time and hasn't smited me for anything yet, I've done far worse than this, so it's fine."

“You sure? The rest of our house is so clean, and this is...”

“A reminder of a nice time. Just leave it,” he grits out, suddenly annoyed, and heads out of the room, leaving Steve in confusion in a mixed floor of colours. 

It’s not ugly, the flecks across the room, it does brighten it up a bit, but Bucky is right, it could be even better. He comes up short on what to turn it into, feeling horribly inadequate and uncomfortable with painting Bucky’s wall. Perhaps a nice sunrise, considering Bucky has missed all that shine through the window next to it, but he’d need to give it a few goes on canvas before he’s willing to tackle a wall. There will be time, he promises himself, to make it worthwhile, something worthy for Bucky, and even when he gets his own place, he’s sure Bucky will let him come around to finish it.

Steve watches in fascination, hypnotised, as the paint swirls down the drain of his own warm shower, warm that he doesn't need because it's radiating from within him, touched by Bucky's own good mood.

"Did you mind making the bookcase?" Bucky asks after dinner, when they’re sat on the same couch, waiting for their next movie. 

Steve’s usual position is knees up, in case he gets an urge to press a sketchbook against it, and always has been. "Yeah, it was fine," Steve shrugs. It feels right to do it now, to try what he wants to try. He’s both empowered by the scene by the lake, and a little by the image that Bucky looks no different than if they were sitting on their rickety old couch in Brooklyn, but Steve slides his feet down the couch until his toes are pressed under Bucky’s thigh.

Bucky looks at him, a moment too long, but he doesn't seem uncomfortable with the motion, so Steve doesn't pull away. "Good, cause I was actually thinking of redoing the whole house." At Steve's raised eyebrow he says, "Hasn't been upgraded since the 90's."

"Why now?"

"If I asked Tony for help he'd probably buy me a new house and I'd get no say. Tasha's as bland, no, not that, minimalistic maybe, practical, as me with her taste. I'd thought you'd have a good idea, y'know, artist eye and all that."

“Well, what are you after?”

“I don’t care, whatever you want.”

“Bucky,” he sighs.

“I thought if you're gonna be staying here, you might as well make it a home you like." There's a pause, and far too casually, “You are staying, aren’t you?”

Steve stills. He was happy to ignore this conversation for as long as it took, even with S.H.I.E.L.D yesterday, but apparently his time is now. It is a big enough issue that can’t exactly be overlooked, so he takes a breath and forces himself to relax, before saying, “S.H.I.E.L.D gave me a bank account and apparently there’s a bit in it, interest and my Army pay accrued, but if you're offering, I’m not sure about looking at places until I figure out what I want to do,” he tries, because it’s partly true. “And maybe get some actual work.”

“There’s no pressure, Stevie.”

“I-,” he sighs. “I haven’t really thought about anything yet. I'm not even sure I know what jobs there are available these days, probably not the sort of things I used to go for anyway.”

“So you’ll stay,” Bucky decides, and pats his shins.

“I’d love to,” Steve says, and pauses.

“I’m sensing a 'but',” Bucky says and turns to the blank TV. He removes his hand from Steve’s shin, and tucks them both under his armpits, fingers flicking as he goes, and that’s all the confirmation Steve needs.

“Sam did mention something else.”

“I’m gonna delete his number,” Bucky tries for a joke, but it’s tight. He has to prompt Steve. “What was it, then?”

Steve sighs. He’d not actually thought how to approach it, it’s a fairly delicate situation so he needs to be sensitive. And he should probably clear Sam’s name, seeing as that part’s untrue. He can’t afford to ruin a chance at a friendship in the future, not when he doesn’t have many, and definitely not someone so close to Bucky. “Well, actually he didn’t say anything. I asked him and he said I’d have to talk to you about it.”

“Go on.”

“I know you said you weren’t uncomfortable with me being here,” he starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“And I meant it. I thought that was it.”

“It’s not so much about you being uncomfortable, it’s if it worries you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just-. I, well. It's more something I noticed." Bucky just grinds his teeth. "Bucky,” he draws a breath, “Are you scared of me?”

His head whips to Steve, horrified. He’s a little hurt, too, Steve can see, but Steve can soothe that wound after its been clarified. It's too important. “Why would you ask that?” Bucky's voice is sharp, and he’s suddenly tense atop Steve’s feet. 

“Because it seemed like you were, for a bit,” he says quietly. “You get all twitchy sometimes. Sam sent me some papers, is all, medical documents, and I suppose it could make sense, given your, given what-, well I'm not going to stay here if it's no good for you.”

Bucky stays silent, but turns his head away. 

“Don’t,” Steve says when he sees the first sign, like the conversation about the knife. “Don’t walk away. I’m not trying to hurt you with this, I just want to know.”

Steve feels his eyes start to prickle when Bucky starts chewing his cheek and wonders in his own sort of horror why _he_ is so affected by Bucky's anxiety. “I think,” he starts, it’s a little shaky but grows steadier with his words, “I mean, there was a time when I was scared of everything. That’s better now, I told you, it was only Hydra that did that this week. And that’s done now.”

“So what’s this now, with your hands. You did that before Natasha’s visit too, been doing it since I woke up here.”

“Oh no, that’s not- No. That’s not you,” he says, suddenly shy.

“Well, there’s no one else here, so it kinda seems that way.”

“No, it’s just, um-.” Bucky mumbles. “It’s just, sometimes touch is grounding. When I'm, not right. Like breathing does, or pain. Only better. That’s why it helps, with the sleeping,” he says, unfurling his arms and picking non-existent fluff off the bottom of his shirt.

“Oh Jesus, Buck, why didn’t you just say something?”

“Cause it’s awkward.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Bucky stays silent, so Steve leans forward, the motion shifting his weight so that his toes slip under further, and he presses more weight into Bucky. “You can touch me Bucky, I won’t think a thing of it, if that's what you're worried about. If it helps.”

He's not doing this for his own desires. He's not. 

They’re silent, and after a while, Bucky nods. After another long pause, Steve feels he needs to ask. “Does it only work if you touch me, or do you want me to touch you back?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, still fumbling around his clothes and looking uncomfortable, eyes elsewhere. “Can you let me figure it out?”

Steve doesn't like that answer, but maybe it's for the best, if Steve's not so tempted with a freedom. He tries to keep his voice light. “Alright.” It’s not until Bucky gives out a small thanks that Steve muses, “Won’t even get arrested if you do it outside of the house.” Bucky lets out a startled laugh, and looks at Steve in surprise, who just shrugs and explains, “I saw a coupla fellas near the lake today.”

“Must of been a shock.”

“A bit, but not so much,” and Bucky raises a brow. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Bucky jolts. "What?" He asks, but this time Steve doesn't laugh, or feel validated.

“Clara use to invite us to Greenwich Village after those classes I took, when you were away at Basic. I went, a few times. Love is love, it was all just inspiration, she said.”

He’s not sure what reaction he was expecting, but pure, white lipped anger was not it. "You what?"

Steve holds his breath in anticipation, an anxiety of his own, but holds his ground with his stare. He's slightly sure, he's never seen it from Bucky, but Steve suddenly has the same jittery fear he used to get when his ear was about to be burnt from the words his Ma would use to chew him out when he'd done something especially heinous. It wasn't often, but left a lasting impression and Bucky would sometimes joke from the one he was audience for was the reason he was deaf in one ear.

“You're telling me," Bucky says slowly, "That all 90 pounds of Steve Rogers that could barely wrangle Gracie Barnes when she was eight years old, used to dance around in the dark in queer bars in order to paint a few flowers better?" 

"It wasn't like that," he says, incredulously, and a little furious himself. "We went once, twice, maybe." It doesn't placate Bucky, he's breathing through his nose as his lips are still pressed tight, but he doesn't say anything. "And yes, if you wouldn't believe, it made me be not so closed minded."

He may as well not spoken, or perhaps Bucky also lost hearing from the only verbal belting he got from Sarah Rogers.

"I was just making friends."

"I bet you were," Bucky mutters.

Steve's stomach curdles. They'd somehow had an unspoken agreement to never talk about queers, not once, showing neither ill will or being in favour of them. Just accepted that they existed and it didn't apply to them, and Bucky would dance the weekend away with dames while Steve pretended not to care. This is the first he's seen of Bucky's real feelings, and he thinks he might have been better off in his dream state of ignorance. The effects of Hydra from three days ago almost seems easy to handle, compared to this. "Thought you were all for equality, these days," he says sourly. 

"Come off it, Stevie, you know that's not it."

"I don't actually,” he says, still dark, trying to swallow down his own disgust, at himself, at Bucky.

"Who people love is their own business," Bucky says, his voice hard. "What's mine, is that every time you open your mouth you tell me another dumb idea you had when I wasn’t around.”

“It wasn't stupid.”

“Wasn't-!" Bucky splutters. "You couldn't hold off guys who wanted to beat you up, let alone anything else."

Steve gapes at him, and swallows. "Well James Buchanan, I appreciate my concern for my virtue, but-"

"Christ, Stevie, you coulda been killed! Left in the street for even being seen there, then what, caught the train or walked home in the middle of the night?"

“At the ripe age of 23, Bucky, believe it or not, I could find my way home without you holding my hand.”

Bucky sets his jaw. "You only made it to 23 cause I always did." 

"I really hate you calling me an idiot, Bucky. I’m not dumb. I was never as clever as you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. And I know you don't think much of me, but I can survive without you.”

"By pure dumb luck."

“I mean it, Buck. It’s not nice.”

“Neither is ditching me on my last night in Brooklyn to sign yourself up to be a science experiment,” he says pointedly.

Seems like Steve's not the only one holding on to their past selves. He'd never really seen it like that, but all in all-

"It got me here, didn't it?"

"No, actually. It got you somewhere where you could get yourself shot. And nothing compared to Greenwich Village a fucking World War."

"Cause I knew I could heal right up and still do some good. And if you don't recall, I spent a fair bit of that time saving your ass too."

Bucky grinds his teeth. "Not sure how healed up you can get from jumping on a grenade," he says tersely. 

Well. 

Fuck Phillips, Steve decides. Peggy would never have ratted him out like that. 

“I’m not going to do that again, so you can stop with the names. And this isn’t even about any of that. Start your own fight, if you want that. Are you really that mad that I went?”

“Not mad,” Bucky says, and breathes out, enough to calm himself. Resignedly, he sighs, "I just don't know where to get you a shred of self preservation. For my own sake. 70 years later you're still finding new ways to tickle me."

Steve doesn't answer, he's still a little too queasy as Bucky's words settle further and further into the war machine in his chest. Maybe he shouldn't stay here, if Bucky's so adverse to him, to his actions.

God, he'd spent his whole life chasing after Bucky, just happy to be friends, to be in his life in any capacity, and in less than a minute it feels like the rug has been pulled from underneath him. He'd had no expectations, rarely even dreams, he's not sure why they're so dashed. 

"Hey," Bucky nudges his legs, swaying from their anchor under Bucky's legs still. "I'm not mad. And I don't care who people go around with, I'm really all for it. I'm glad people don't have to be worried about that sort of thing anymore. But that's not how it was, alright? It wasn't, and people ended up in jail or dead from it, you know that. You just gave me a scare."

Steve still doesn't answer.

"You said you weren't going to leave," Bucky tries, and it's only _because_ he's spent his whole life side by side with Bucky that he can hear the faint plea in it.

Steve takes a deep breath. "I'm not," and he knows he means it. Steve's personal feelings are his own to deal with, and he has been, this whole time, in two centuries now, so he just needs to carry on the way he normally does. He and Bucky can keep their separate thoughts, and lead their separate lives, and Steve will avoid Natasha's mind violation with every trick he knows. "But one other thing,” he says, before he lets it go on any longer.

Bucky closes his eyes as he exhales. “You're officially banned from my friends, Stevie,” he jokes weakly. 

“This isn’t about Sam.” It’s enough to open Bucky’s eyes, so Steve continues, “You gotta let me earn my keep here. You don’t let me do anything. I get that you want to take care of me, I don't like it, and you're too annoying if I don't let you, but it’s a bit ridiculous that you won’t even let me make meals or wash my own dishes when you don’t eat any yourself.”

“Breakfast dishes for new interior,” Bucky bargains, "And only if you stay." Steve sighs, because that is not a fair trade off, and not even on his own behalf. He hopes to god there’s no negotiating in Bucky’s work, because he’s just failed miserably. Over a plate with no more than toast crumbs on it.

Bucky passes him the phone again and asks him to pick out new, well, everything, for the house. The prices and the names are hidden again, he realises, but he does his best, to try and find things that would fit in the house. They don’t seem as impressive as Bucky’s own furniture, he’s wondering now if Bucky made it himself, but he seems pretty set on it, so Steve spends a while flicking through the catalogs, grateful for a distraction. It’s not even much of one though, a lot of the rooms are already decorated, but Steve’s a little worried that a lot of them look flimsy, and could break if either of them sat down too hard. In the end, Steve picks nothing, he’s convinced none of it will hold up, and even if he's going to stay that long, if he'll physically be able to, and Bucky says they can go look next week.

“All this hard work you’re gonna make me do, if only I had some donuts to sweeten the deal. I might even pass out from low blood sugar before then,” he says sadly.

“You’re incorrigible,” Bucky mutters and leaves the couch. He throws, not lightly, a box at Steve’s head and puts on Cinderella. When he sits, it's down again on Steve's toes, the pressure on his feet alleviating some of the pressure Steve feels within his own skin.

“Aw Buck, I don’t care what Sally Fairweather used to say about you, you do know how to treat em’ right.”

Bucky had bought six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far - fun fact, this story is now longer than Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets!  
> Over the course of a few months and quarantine, I have written almost half a million words (almost half of that is unpublished) which is kinda cool. Makes me feel slightly productive, I guess~!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Peggy, I have to tell you something.” 
> 
> “You don't have to tell me a damn thing,” she says, and squeezes his hand. She's looking at him, not with disgust, or surprise, but with command. “But he spent so long living with you dead, Steve, let him find his footing just a while longer before you ask for a dance.”

Try as he might, Steve went to bed on his own side, but sleep had other ideas for them. Stiff as a board, his hands kept definitely to himself after Bucky’s request to figure things out and, and a little, a small part of Steve that couldn’t shake the image of Bucky’s quiet fury at his sole ventures, though Bucky denied it was the nature of what he was doing, but more the method of how he was doing. Steve still wakes just before dawn in what he has come to dub the ‘usual’ position; Bucky’s nose scrunched into his chest, small patch of warm and wet where his breath hits the same spot for hours, both Bucky's hands bunched up between them and aligned with the apex of Steve's rib cage, and Steve’s arm over Bucky’s waist.

Bucky might have reservations about consciously touching, and Steve’s afraid that if he mentions what takes over in his unconscious, the only solution would be separating beds. It seems to do Bucky far too much good, it’s erased the tired, the tense, even the scared, in Bucky’s features, not only in his sleep, but it seems to carry through to the day, so for now, it remains a secret between Steve and the night. 

This perfect lull of both approaching daybreak and their position is not something Steve can think to disturb, not even to get up to paint like Bucky had expected, so he lies still and wonders what to expect from the day. It was only a week ago that everything went south, Steve tries not to dwell on that for fear of manifesting a similar scenario, instead wipes off a spot of paint which Bucky missed in his scrub, a blue on the underside of his jaw just near his ear, scratching slightly with his nail.

"S’ you doing," Bucky mumbles. His face is still relaxed, he looks asleep, but Steve can feel the muscles instantly stretched taut and ready in his arms.

"Missed a bit of paint," Steve whispers.

Bucky keeps his eyes closed but brings his hand up to scrub at the mark, rolling away slightly as he does. “There?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and Bucky settles back down, head back on his chest, frowning slightly. Steve stays desperately still, willing Bucky to fall back asleep, to melt into him, but after a few minutes of grumpy that settles on both his face and in his movements, Bucky whines, “Aww, no, now I’m awake. Why’d you ruin that?” 

He hits Steve’s chest palm open and makes a face at the small damp patch he’s left. It’s only then Bucky seems to realise their proximity, testing his toes which scrape against Steve’s legs.

“Run?” Steve asks hopefully, both wanting the movement and distraction. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t think, Steve is almost adamant he doesn’t reach for Bucky in the night, it’s the other way around, but it’s not an extra stress he wants to place so early.

Bucky untangles himself and draws his knees up, dangling his head between them and groans, “You’re so weird. Why you gotta be so weird? What’s wrong with sleeping like a normal person?” He tilts over, collapsing his cheek into the mattress and throws his pillow behind him to hit Steve, but rolls out of bed before Steve can offer to go by himself.

Weird is an okay term. Weird is an improvement from idiot, and this word isn’t exactly inaccurate. Plus, the way Bucky says it is slightly endearing, lessens the pressure of the imploded bomb in his chest ever so slightly, and allows for one extra breath. When Bucky starts rummaging around for clothes to run in, still in the dark because Steve’s not going to cop the glare he gets if he shines a bright light near him half asleep, Steve sits up and near groans himself.

If he can’t keep even his thoughts in line, he’s going to have a hard time keeping himself in check around Bucky now that their living arrangements are locked in. He’ll only making it torture for himself, and awkward for Bucky, and poor Natasha when she flits around in his head, by allowing his mind to progress down this road. He's spent years and years hiding himself in more desperate times, I'm dangerous times, he's not sure where his inhibitions have suddenly gone.

It certainly doesn’t help when Bucky ties his hair back, because it's look too good, more than anyone has the right to. Even though Bucky is less shy about his abilities now, running faster than he did the first time in possible payback for dragging him out of bed before even the sun, Steve has to sprint ahead. If he’s focusing on how his own body is moving, the exercise induced pain he’s in, he can’t think of anything else. It works for all of an hour, but when his legs slow on their way back to the house, his mind still runs.

Bucky’s taken on board Steve’s other request, and doesn’t bother to make breakfast for Steve, instead heads straight to a shower. Steve times the coffee right so there’s a cup waiting just as Bucky’s finished, and motions outside. It’s a pleasant morning, Steve didn’t have time to enjoy it much between running and running faster, and they sit outside on the steps, Bucky just a few lower than Steve, watching the morning begin for the other families on the street. 

It’s an odd sort of suburbia for Steve, who’d only even known cramped apartment blocks and bustling New York streets, an ever lingering smell and constant cacophony of shouts and horns and somehow, somehow, there was always a baby crying. It’s too much of a change both from the Brooklyn borough and European countryside Steve had almost become accustomed to, to decide if he likes it yet or not. It’s not that he doesn’t _not_ like it, it’s just- well, it’s not a life he’d ever imagined for Bucky, let alone himself. But with the suspicious lack of agents, Steve is wondering if this is going to be his new normal. And if it is, it’s definitely a feeling and a sight he could get used to.

Steve is pulled from his quiet thoughts, starting a little when an index finger is crooked through the laces of his shoes, but Bucky just keeps his head forward and takes a sip. He waits, and almost asks, but Bucky keeps at his coffee and he understands what the movement signifies.

It’s not like Steve had anticipated Bucky’s idea of touching him to be anything like their sleeping arrangements, all parts of them pressed together, flushed skin against-. No, Steve never assumed that Bucky’s idea of grounding to be anything like that, but when Steve realises this is what Bucky meant by 'figuring it out', now that he’s started attempting, Steve can’t feel a little disappointed at what he’s receiving. There was close to nothing off limits growing up, except the obvious, and even those limits were pushed by all the Commandos when cover was cramped and too cold, or time to wash in a river was sparse and someone was too injured to reach all places.

But hey, a week ago, Bucky would barely look Steve in the eye, so he forces down all expectations with a long draught of now lukewarm coffee. It's just another thing in this new world he's going to have to deal with, accept, and then move forward from. 

"You still feeling alright, Stevie?"

"What do you mean?" Steve asks with a frown, that Bucky can't see, and he's glad for that. He feels he should constantly be asking Bucky that, not the other way around.

"About the future."

It’s far too early in the morning for this sort of conversation, even if they've already started with a run and coffee. Steve has a flash of irritation at the question, in that it could sour what looked like it could be shaping up to a nice day, but if Bucky’s making a sort of effort, he supposes he should too. He doesn’t have to explain that his emotions are stronger than ever, change too quickly for even him to keep up, how overwhelmed he gets by Bucky just being Bucky, but what he does say is, "I’m getting there."

Bucky looks at him, a split second of heart break in which Steve knows that he wanted to hear something else. "You said you'd tell me if you weren't okay. What’s bothering you?"

“I don’t know.” Bucky waits for him to go on, and he sighs. “I guess if everything in the world has changed, then nothing has, so that makes it me what’s wrong. And I can't help but know that my head was on straighter and more solid jumping from 90 pounds Brooklyn to sleeping in the mud at 220 pounds and shooting a gun than it is to… this.”

Bucky sits straight with such motion his finger jerks at Steve’s shoe, pulling it down to the next step. His coffee spills, lucky it’s warm by now but Steve’s not sure even the burn of a scold would bother him. “Are you beating yourself up because you found it easier to fit into a war than almost 70 years in the future?” He asks incredulously. When Steve shrugs, he goes on, “Stevie, that’s all you thought about your whole life. The stories of your Pa, Pearl Harbour, you thought of nothing except a war for years. Not going wasn’t a possibility, never entertained the thought, you didn’t even bother trying to have a life outside of that. And then when you got there, you never even did play ‘When I get home’ in the war. Cut yourself some slack, before I cut it for you,” he says, shaking his head as he turns back to face the street.

“I think maybe I’m just too far out.” Bucky’s jaw clenches, so he says, “Just, let me deal with it. It’s been a long time, it might take more than two weeks for me to tell you what you want to hear. It doesn’t mean that I’m not having a good time while I do it.”

Bucky opens his mouth and shuts it quickly, then lets out a short laugh. “How are we arguing on the same side?”

“Beats me, but it's a first.” Bucky is still looking at him, with an unfiltered concern, so Steve gives him his ‘Steve’ look and says, “I’m fine. I’m just, a beat behind. Was never good with rhythm, you know that, never danced.”

Well, except the once.

Bucky seems to accept it, and turns back to watch the street.

"You never played, either,” Steve thinks suddenly.

There’s a short grimace, then a puff of air out his nose so hard it blows steam into his face, but Bucky indulges him and says, “Nah, I knew I was never coming home.”

The words twist Steve's face and grip around his heart. “You never said.” Both their interests on a surface level are sparked by a lawnmower across the street, a small piece of information that he tucks into the pack of his mind that this is what Steve’s weekends could sound like. But not right now, and it's not enough to deter him from the topic. “When did you know?”

“I mean, I’m sure it was everyone’s only thought on that boat. But the whole blue devil guns in Italy didn’t do much to make me doubt myself. Or anything after. Honestly, I felt like each day we didn't die, I stole it from someone else.”

Steve steals a shaky breath before it's taken from him, before his lungs finally, finally give out years past their due. He'd know what it was like, knowing you were going to die, only Steve's was a fever or an infection or his inevitable heart failure, not a bullet, or drawn out torture, or worse. And that's not something he'd ever want Bucky to have felt, or at least feel alone, without someone to rub away the cold and the shiver like Bucky had all those years for Steve. Maybe he shared his fears with other soldiers, but that thought doesn't make him feel better.

Bucky had never shared it with _him._

The actual words, the ones that never said Bucky proved himself wrong, that proved Steve wrong, that made a farce of the two funerals held by the Barnes family swim to the top of the angry sounds of grass cutting, pushing down his hurt. Just before the timer is set on the capsule containing his fragmented heart, he feels the same sort of disconnect he felt in a similar position, on the stairs in the hallway, a few nights ago. It's not quite the same, he can still feel the weight of a simple finger on his shoe, can smell fresh grass clippings mixed with coffee, can see Bucky's jaw moving through his own eyes, not some apparition version of himself, but he just doesn't feel, like himself. It doesn't last long, and he's slammed back into his own frame with brutal force when he sees the word 'Hydra' formed on Bucky's lips, a moment delay on the sound.

“Can we not-,” Steve cuts him off, and takes a breath, forcing his chest to expand. “Can we go see Peggy today?”

Bucky looks him over, suddenly sad, and for a long time Steve thinks the gaze is saying no, until Bucky’s jaw unclenches and he nods, “I’ll give the home a call. When it’s a goddam normal hour.” 

“Thanks.” Under Bucky’s unfinished look, he furthers, “What is it?”

“It’s just, Becca’s also been asking...” Steve’s face drops, and Bucky rushes, “You don’t have to. If it’s too soon, or -”

“Yes. Absolutely, yes.” He feels guilty, a guilt so great it displaces his own mood. He had barely thought of them, Bucky’s family, _his_ own family, since their talk on the hill, which could be as long ago as 1940 with all that happened since.

“Are you sure?” Bucky’s finger around his lace has tightened, knuckle white, and somehow he looks more concerned now, than before.

“I’m not gonna break, Bucky. I’m dying to see New York and I haven’t seen Becca in years, not even counting the ones I was asleep for." Bucky still doesn't look convinced, so Steve adds, "Besides, no one will gang up on you with me like her, and I’m awfully short on ammunition with this time gap.”

It relaxes the grip, enough that Steve feels he can leave to take a shower. “You both get a one day free pass,” Bucky calls after him.

When he gets back down, Bucky’s face is grimmer than it has any right to be. “So, uh, problem,” and Steve waits patiently, because it’s not in a ‘Natasha called and there’s another assassin’ way. “She didn’t take it as a private affair. Everyone knows.”

“And that’s a problem, how?”

“Everyone, Stevie. Everyone.” When Steve gives no reaction, Bucky explains, “It’s a lot of people.”

“The more the merrier, they say.” Bucky still looks dubious, so Steve adds, “Look, if you don’t want to go, I’ll go by myself. Just tell me when and how to get there, and let me borrow your bike.”

“Then who would have to rag on?”

“Becca and I talked shit about you behind your back your entire life, Buck. You don’t gotta be there to be a problem.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “How do you feel about tomorrow?”

“Not like I have plans,” he shrugs. “It’s up to you. Did you hear about Peggy?”

“We can go before lunch, if you still want.”

Steve nods, letting his gratitude show, and goes upstairs to change into something nicer. He just ends up what he wore the first visit, he’d rather play it safe until he’s absolutely sure, and settles himself onto the couch to finish off the books that Tony has given him. After all the time inside, Steve is only a chapter from the end of World History, not including the Captain America biography, but he’s purposely ignored that. It’s information overload, even with the half of the facts that he’s already forgotten, almost like he's bursting out of the seams of Tony's tight shirts, but he knows that at the very least the ideas are tucked away into his mind, and he should at least be able to bluff his way through most situations.

Then, there’s the matter of learning Bucky’s family tree. Which, once again, is made easier for him, in the most ridiculous of ways. When Steve asks for a brief overview, seeing as most, if not all, of the extended Barnes will be making an appearance tomorrow, Bucky gets a glint in his eye and disappears. He balances a large folder on Steve’s bent knees and takes a seat next to him on the couch.

When Bucky’s index finger twists into the hem of Steve’s pants, he doesn’t react, but he does when he sees what the folder is. “You,” he starts slowly, “Have a file. On your own family?”

“Freya thinks I’m a spy,” he says, clearly amused. 

“Aren’t you?”

Bucky makes a so-so motion with his head and his lips twitch, but he continues, “Freya thinks I’m a spy, and she went through a phase. Mostly she just dressed in black and spoke in whispers, but we made this. I wouldn’t knock it, it’s enough, and about to become very handy to you.”

Steve is going to have to thank Freya, because she’s done a thorough job with intel and recon on every Barnes descendant, from pictures to dates of births, known occupancies and preferences, all in a layout that is more familiar to Steve than anything else so far. Hand drawn Barnes logos adorn the top right of each page, and large red ‘CLASSIFIED’ block letters cover Bucky and Freya’s pages, thick black lines of redaction on Bucky’s birth date and Freya’s address and favourite ice-cream flavour. This, he can understand, and he doesn’t even have to draw up a strategy on how to face them, because Bucky and Becca have already done that for him. There’s even an actual family tree that folds out over three pages, for reference, and by the end, he thinks he knows more about any one Barnes than he does even 21st Century Bucky. At the very least, it keeps him entertained and thoroughly amused until Bucky announces stiffly that it’s time to go. 

Springing a trip to visit Peggy doesn't invite the same calm as the Thursday did and it itches at Steve slightly, an itch that they both can’t scratch, wondering if maybe it’s not Peggy’s routine that limits him to a one hour visit on a designated day, but Bucky’s own. 

“Aw crap,” Bucky moans, shuffling his feet once they smile and wave past the receptionist. “I forgot the flowers in the back seat. Can you go get them? You know how to get back, right?” Handing Steve the keys, he walks off and doesn’t look back.

It doesn’t take him long, less than a few minutes, but apparently it’s enough for the pair to have a conversation that leaves Bucky’s eyes red rimmed and causes Peggy to keep her hand clutched tight in Bucky’s hand instead of Steve’s throughout their visit. Steve politely ignores both the actions, and even slightly curious and put off, Peggy settles him in the way he had hoped she would. 

She's the best medicine Steve could have hoped for, and while she doesn't pluck the shrapnel from his chest and stitch him up, she's like a balm, soothing and warm and only full of good things that leaves him content and thankful.

When they make to leave, Steve is hesitant, unsure how to ask for what he wants, but Bucky just eyes him, then claps his shoulder and says, “I’ll meet you back at the car.”

He watches over his shoulder and waits until Bucky is out of the door and he can hear the footsteps receding before he turns back. He doesn’t even get to open his mouth before Peggy cuts in. “Oh, Steve, you can’t crack me. I spent my whole life in the Service, even your baby blues won’t break me,” she chides.

Steve ducks his head, smiling at the jibe, and moves to take her hand. There’s a dolefulness when he feels over Peggy’s skin again, he can’t remember what her hands felt like, not other than this. If he's looking for a solid anchor to his life before the deep dive on the Valkyrie, he'll have to search elsewhere. Even so, being away from Bucky is bearable this time, perhaps because he knows he’s close, and it’s only a few minutes, or perhaps it’s just that Steve doesn’t feel alone because Peggy is here. “I was only going to ask if he was okay.”

“I hear you had an interesting week. But it is an interesting world you now live in, I suppose you will have to be introduced in one way or another.”

Steve wonders if Bucky’s forgetfulness was deliberate. “I, just-” he sighs. "I guess I feel like I failed. I crashed a plane, and all for what? To find out that it keeps Bucky awake at night worse than it did before."

"You did brilliantly, Steve, more than anyone could ever ask, though I do get upset at the thought that there might have been another way for you. It was everyone after who mucked it up, myself included. You mustn't punish yourself for that, and certainly no one else does. Bucky and I have come to an understanding about our years after your death, a comfortable one, and I don't need you spoiling all my hard work."

"Thank you. For everything,” he says earnestly, leaning forward as if he’s not making his point from afar. The words have been playing on his mind since their last visit, this is what he is here for, she needs to understand. “For taking care of him, when I know he wasn’t taking care of himself.” 

For some reason the words thin her lips. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know that, and I’d never think that. But it doesn’t mean I can’t be grateful for it.”

“Of course,” Peggy sighs, resigned. “I’ve just, oh, I’ve spent so long trying to make him understand that it wasn’t _anything_. It’s just what you do. Even today, just before you walked in, I had to smack him upside the head about it. Sometimes he struggles to understand how people can just love him so freely.”

He’s watching her, and she’s watching him, and Steve has a sudden desire to alleviate his soul, to try and stitch his own wounds himself, diffuse his own bomb despite what happened last time he was surrounded by explosives. His burden, that he’s carried as long as he can remember, he wonders, he hopes and prays it will be better shared, more so now that he knows it is no longer a burden, that he’s not endangering her or hurting her. And there’s no one else he would ever want to know more than Peggy. 

At the very least, he feels he owes her this. Despite that she grew old, and loved, without him, she deserves the truth. 

He doesn’t bother taking a breath to steady himself, there’s no air in this new world anyway, and it would add a second for him to doubt himself. 

“Peggy, I have to tell you something.” 

“You don't have to tell me a damn thing,” she says, and squeezes his hand. She's looking at him, not with disgust, or surprise, but with command. “But he spent so long living with you dead, Steve, let him find his footing just a while longer before you ask for a dance.”

It's not the relief he was expecting, no, it's a slap to the face. For himself, accepting, that was decades ago. Not immediately shutting down the thoughts that could get him arrested, well that had started only just recently, after the book of the 60's. Naming, describing, using words where there used to just be drawings, is coming easier each day. But doing something about it?

There's too much to lose. The part of him that acknowledged that he would keep Bucky from that, the part borne in the 30's, has carried with all his determination into this world, for different reasons. “I’m not going to do that. Not to him. I- I can't.”

“Oh Steve,” she sighs, “I’ve seen you be more stubborn over less important things.”

“I think it’s because they were always less important that I could,” he says with a half-hearted smile. 

“You know he cares for you. Even you aren’t daft enough to not see that.”

“It’s not the same way. And I don’t want to ruin anything. Peggy," he leans forward, insisting. They're close enough now that Steve could turn his face up and kiss her, but there’s not that desire. Instead, he leans his cheek onto the pillow, and though he's still sitting, it's as intimate as if they were sharing the same bed. "I could lose him. I wouldn’t survive that, not a second time.” Lord knows she understands how he didn't, the first time.

“You’re so dramatic. Doesn’t that get tiresome?” There’s nothing he can say to that, just laughs and shakes his head, rubbing it into the pillow. “It will all work out, you’ll see. Now go. Don’t waste yourself in here, inside a home. You’ll end up here one day, so go live your life until then. Make me proud.”

“I will,” Steve promises, and moves his head back, a swift kiss to her cheek as goodbye. “I will.”

“Her tongue still get up to the same tricks?” Bucky muses, leaning against the front of the car, arms crossed loosely, soaking in the sun. Steve scowls at him, and just waits for the door to unlock instead of answering. He’s no good at lying, and there’s nothing about that conversation he wants Bucky to know about.

Though he’s not sure how greatly he conveyed his appreciation for Peggy and everything she'd done for Bucky, and by extension, Steve, and the conversation was severely flipped, he does now feel lighter for having spoken true, for what, he realises, is the very first time. In all his years. Peggy is a gift to this world, one that he doesn’t think he deserves at times, and Steve is almost overwhelmed by how much he still loves her, just not in the way he once wondered. She might not be his anchor to a different time, but she's still an anchor to himself, a reminder of what he wants from the world and who he wants to be. She believed in him, as a scrawny test experiment, all the way through to the Valkyrie, so maybe in time, he'll allow himself to believe her. If Peggy thinks it's the right thing to do, to, well, dance, then it mustn't be wrong.

But if it is…

Bucky knows more about what Steve is thinking than he lets on, because he asks softly, “Are you still in love with her?”

“I don’t think so,” he says, but realises that’s not true. “No, I’m not. Are you?”

Steve’s words were a guess, a half attempted bluff, from when it had run through his mind a few times, that maybe Bucky did fall into step with Peggy after the war, but she’d already been married to someone else. He’d never gotten married because _‘It’s hard, but it’s Peggy’_ , who had been his constant since 1945, who’d know him in a way no one else could, had given herself away to someone else, and that there would be no point pretending with anyone else. Bucky used to laugh at him when Steve scowled at his constantly changing dates, but he doesn’t care if it makes him a sap, or a romantic, he knows for some people, himself included, there’s only one person in the world who could be their whole world.

They were meant to be a guess that he could back up with half convincing evidence, but there’s no need. Bucky seems to crumple in on himself, his face twisting like Steve had run a knife through him, but he schools it quickly into something slightly less pained. In the time it takes for Bucky to answer, Steve feels a little cruel, and wonders if it’s still a sharp rejection, or if that's what it does to a person, hiding a part that so desperately wants to be free. "No."

Negotiation, now lying, are definitely skills that are off the table for Bucky if he is actually a spy. Steve says dryly, "Somehow I don't believe you. It doesn't bother me, Buck. I'd be surprised if the whole world didn't love her, I was only curious about you."

“I’m not,” Bucky says firmly.

“So you were?”

“No.” 

“Thought we were done with the lying.”

"It's complicated," is the answer Steve gets.

"So un-complicate it," Steve demands, a familiar stab of annoyance that precurses anger. It shouldn’t, but Bucky flitted through relationships since he was a kid, claiming a new love of his life twice a month. Even his friends, he constantly rotated everyone bar Steve, but this, this unresolved, this uncertainty, is making him frustrated, the same way his free form relationship with Natasha does. Steve knows this is on him, he shouldn’t expect Bucky to not have changed over the past 70 years, when he very clearly _has_ , but he’s not going to know how unless Bucky explains. 

"I don’t know, and I don’t like to think about it."

 _That_ sounds more like a truth telling Bucky, but it’s still not enough for Steve. “I’m pretty sure if you were in love, you’d know.”

“No, I wouldn’t, actually,” Bucky says roughly. “When Peggy found me, I didn’t even know my own name, Stevie. I didn’t know anything, except that I was in a lot of pain and that Peggy came every single day. She tucked me into bed like my Ma would, and read stories like my sisters would, and held my hand to help me sleep like a partner might. For a very long time. Left me mighty confused afterwards, and she was no help with that part, just said she was doing it because she loved me. So I can’t tell you what exactly it was, but I can tell you which acronym S.H.I.E.L.D wanted to slot it into and how many times they wrote the word unhealthy next to it. So Peggy is Peggy, and that’s all I let myself think about the matter.”

It’s the most he’s heard Bucky talk about his time after the fall, and it’s enough to leave a bad taste in his own mouth. “It was bad,” Steve states, because it’s not a question. 

"Not as bad as it could have been without her.” Steve waits, because he knows that Bucky knows what he’s going to ask, about his first reaction. “You won’t like it,” Bucky says, his face grim.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“It’s just an unfortunate association. I didn’t know Peggy as well as you during the war. I wouldn’t have even ever known her if it weren’t for you, I don’t think. Ergo, Peggy, you.” That’s not so bad, Steve thinks. It’s not good, but he can handle it, but Bucky takes a deep breath, and Steve knows he’s not going to like what comes next. “That, and she didn’t tell me you died for a while into fixing me up, until I was myself enough. Played the recording, didn’t try a thing to talk you out of it. So yeah, there’s all that mixed up in my feelings for Peg.”

If Steve felt cruel before, he's a Hydra sized monster right now. Sam, Peggy, he hadn't understood truly what they meant, because Steve had gladly welcomed the idea that Bucky was _not_ dead, readily, instantly, wholly, but Bucky still seems to be holding onto an irrelevant grief, a severe physical reaction at even the memory of Steve being dead, even though he's sitting only a few inches away from him. It washes all trace of Peggy's balm off him. "No matter now, though, hey?" Bucky says brusquely.

“It does matter,” Steve says weakly.

"Stevie," Bucky sighs. "It's fine. It’s on me. Apparently I have issues with letting things go. Most people can move past it, but I just let it ferment and turn sour. I’m working on it." He adds, "I meant it when I say no, now. Peggy’s not like that for me."

Steve welcomes the change in conversation even though he was the one who initiated it. He dares, “She’s a far cry from Natasha.”

Bucky seems to sober at his words. “They’re actually not that different.” Steve stares at him in a restrained disbelief, and he just shrugs. “Even Peggy thinks it.”

There’s a twist of something in his stomach, not anger, not jealousy, he’s not quite sure what it is other than perhaps a general unpleasantness, at the idea that Natasha spends time with Peggy, with Bucky, that she’s more present in their life than Steve has been. Even if it is his own fault- 

Oh. Compound regret. 

“How so?” He asks with his voice steady.

“They’re both strong, smart, independent and not afraid to fight for what they believe in. I know Tasha doesn’t outwardly show it, or any other emotion, but she’s loyal, and when she cares about something, she cares hard.” Steve still doesn’t see it, and Bucky can tell. “Tasha’s life has been difficult. She was forced to grow into a person someone else wanted her to be, and she’s had to be many people to survive since then. She gets a little lost in her layers sometimes, but once you know what’s really underneath, if she’s willing to show you which I know she is, you’ll like her. I promise.”

“I’m not sure I’d ever get past the whole mind reading thing, to be honest.”

“Hmm?” It takes Steve far too long, longer than the horrible moment at lunch with Natasha when he wishes he could let the ground swallow him whole rather than sit flushing in his own awkward, awful embarrassment. It’s not even that. He’s fucked up, big time. "The what now, Stevie?"

He’d meant it as honesty, repayment for Bucky’s own horrible truth, but it’s turned into a positive catalyst to a less despairing mood. Steve almost doesn't even care that the moment is finally here, where he believed something so ridiculous in the future that he'll never live down, because in this moment, there's a smile dancing on Bucky's lips, tinkling a twilight sky in his eyes that Steve wants to touch, to make sure it's real, it's there, but he doesn't have the chance before Bucky's lips move again, higher and higher, wider and open, a small dubious laugh delicate as glass.

Almost.

He unfortunately does care, and it shows in the flames on his cheeks.

The laugh stops and Bucky’s smile turns to disbelief when he notices Steve’s unrestrained embarrassment. “Tasha can't read minds, Stevie,” he says slowly. “Where did that even come from?" 

He knows Bucky is going to make him care about it a lot, for a long time, too.

Steve is almost too hot under the collar to think straight. "She just. She knows _everything,_ " Steve hisses in desperation, one last attempt at being right, because Natasha finding out about this if he's wrong is far more mortifying than her _actually_ hearing his thoughts. 

"It's her job to read people. Even without that, she’s astute.”

"It's more than that, it's, it's-" he struggles. “She knew what I was thinking the first time I met her. She answers questions before I ask them. Don’t even get me started about you two together.”

“And your first thought was mind reading?"

"Bucky,” he says imploringly. “I've seen people tear their own faces off. I crashed a plane and the worst that happened was I took an extended nap in a body twice my normal size. You, jeez I don't even know, I wouldn't be surprised if you pulled the whole plane out of the ice by yourself, no problem, one handed. Why wouldn't I think of mind reading? It's actually the only thing about this world so far that has made sense."

Steve went too far with the last part, but luckily Bucky carries on without fanfare. "I promise you, your secrets are safe in your own head around her, but she's sure to find them out some other way.” Steve mustn’t look convinced, because he adds, “You’re an open book, it’s not that hard to work out what’s going on in there. And me and her have known each other so long that we don’t always need to speak. She can’t read minds,” he says with enough lean into it that Steve feels no choice but to believe him.

He studies Bucky’s face for a few moments later before he lets himself breathe. “Oh, thank god,” he exhales. He has half a mind to still be on guard around her, Bucky’s definitely pulled crueler tricks on him.

“Have you been thinking dirty thoughts around her?”

“I’ve been trying not to.” At Bucky’s face of absolute _glee_ , he shoots, “Not those thoughts. Mostly refraining from choice words and names.” 

“Tasha is a bit like that,” Bucky concedes. “She won’t be offended if you ever let one slip though. She’d probably be very interested in whatever 1940’s slang you manage to dig up, actually. Could be useful for a cover for her someday.”

They drive, Steve sitting in his shame and Bucky in a new found happiness, until he adds, “You already know I’m not going to let you live that down. I won’t tell Tasha, not yet, I’ll wait till I find the perfect use for it."

“That's what she said,” he groans. "I hate you. I barely know her, and I think I hate her, too."

"That's what she said about what?" Bucky turns with another look of evil delight, and Steve knows he’s messed up twice. In such a short time.

"None of your damn business," he snaps.

"I’ll find out anyway, so you may as well tell me."

"Nope," and his lips shut together so quickly, so tightly it makes an audible sound. 

"Steve," he says, so suddenly still and serious as they pull up to a red light that Steve swears even the atoms in the air stop vibrating. Bucky looks at him, dark eyes boring into his very soul, exposing him, and with a quiet menace, he says in a low voice Steve has never heard before, "Do you really think I don't know how to make people talk?"

They stare at each other, Steve couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He’s paralysed even from breathing, he certainly can’t let a shiver run up his spine. He can’t run like the world around Bucky is screaming at him to do, and he can’t even move his lips to answer like everything around Bucky is compelling him to do. He’s frozen, like a prey caught by its predator, but Steve is quite sure that if Bucky asked him to walk into the jaws of his own death, he would gladly and willingly. 

The light goes green and Bucky smirks, his mouth crooked until a chuckle escapes.

With the moment broken, Steve sucks in sharp. "Jesus Christ. What the hell was that?”

And Bucky, a grown man of 94, or close enough too, lets out a goddam _giggle,_ the sound itself is almost as terrifying as what just happened. “I wasn’t just a good Sergeant, Stevie. S.H.I.E.L.D found use for some of my other skills, too.”

Whatever Bucky lacks in negotiation and lying, he makes up with _that._

“Please never do that again," he says, only a slight tremble in his voice, trying to figure out what _that_ even was. He knows he should be scared, and he is, a little, his heart racing, his skin hot and tight, but it wasn’t a fear like the night Bucky had a nightmare. He shifts in his seat and the movement _definitely_ doesn’t help.

"I won't," Bucky promises, and it's warm enough that Steve thinks he can start breathing normally again, until he follows it up with, "That's not what I'd use to make you fess up." He closes it with a wink, and Steve turns his head to look out the window. 

The rest of the drive is spent in the quiet, Steve in all sorts of discomfort, and Bucky clearly running through when exactly he’s going to use the information. After they park, and Bucky is the first to make it through to the hallway, he turns back and says, “They do exist though. "These mind readers you’re fixed on. They are a thing."

“Piss off, I'm not falling for that,” Steve all but growls. 

“No, I’m serious. I am, Stevie, I promise you! It’s classified, but there’s a whole school of them in Westchester County.”

Steve shakes his head and pushes past him. 

When he reaches the bottom of the stares, Bucky says solemnly, “You know, that’s what people used to say about us.” Steve looks back, and Bucky just shrugs, and says with a sad smile, “Not so much mind reading, but being an extension of the same person. Phillips told me once it was freaky, once, after he saw us running drills.”

Steve nods, and heads back upstairs to do anything but be around Bucky right now, incase he actually does try that, something, anything, again.

After lunch, Bucky pulls out a computer, it’s just like the TV in its absurdity, and shows exactly what the internet is. Google, he calls it, though Steve’s not sure why it needs so many different names. Steve gives Bucky a scornful look, and consequently feels like the idiot Bucky has refrained from calling him for all of 12 hours when Bucky says, “Type in a question. Any question you want.” But when he does, he finds he can’t stop. The questions themselves can be as foolish as he dares, but there’s always an answer. He knows Bucky would never think less of him for it, but there are still little things that the history books didn’t cover, and he’s too self conscious to ask about, so for the afternoon hours, Steve glues himself to the computer.

“It even speaks back,” Steve says in astonishment when Bucky finds him still at the island near dinner. “I take it back, Buck. I don’t need you anymore, this Google is my new best friend. And you can get a new computer, this one’s mine.”

“That’s actually called a laptop, and you have Google your phone too,” to which Steve gives him an eye of distrust, after the morning’s fiasco. “I told you, the internet is all around us. So yeah, you can take your new pal everywhere. Tony might even fashion a face onto it for you, if you bring a sketch of what you want your new fella to look like.”

Bucky walks over to look over Steve’s shoulder at the newly dubbed laptop, but Steve tilts the screen down before he realises what he’s just done. Bucky raises an eyebrow but steps back.

Steve can feel his face going red under the gaze, so he mutters. “It’s just stupid stuff. Stuff I don’t want to ask you cause it seems obvious.”

“Alright,” Bucky says, but grins, his eyes squinted playfully, hands up in a peace gesture. “Whatever you say, Stevie. Don’t bother me what you’re into, but whatever.” Steve flushes again, and makes to protest but Bucky’s already leaving. “You know I can see everything you look up though, right? The internet saves it, government tracks that sort of thing, uses it against you.”

“Shouldn’t you stop that?” Steve asks, aghast.

“I am the government. S.H.I.E.L.D, we live off it, that’s where our intel comes from,” he shrugs, laughing again as he goes back upstairs.

Steve lifts the screen back up and immediately Googles how to remove all trace of his stupidity and embarrassment. Turns out it’s called a search history, and it’s relatively easy to get rid of for all Bucky said. But it leads him down a dark whole of government conspiracies that Steve, thinking of Hydra, of SSR, of the too damn big body sitting in a stool reading them, doesn’t necessarily disagree with. For good measure, he searches how to put Google on his phone so he’s at least one step removed from what Bucky can see. 

He’s pleased with his plan for all of ten minutes before his mind catches up that it’s a phone from Tony, in a house monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D. 

He vows to get himself an anonymous library card.

Bucky mentions after dinner that he can ask Tony to organise a jet for tomorrow, it will only take 40 minutes from DC to the city, and Steve uses his new best friend Google to make sure Bucky’s not lying to him. 40 minutes sounds better than four hours, but staring at the little plane picture and the dotted lines, Steve’s vision narrows, blocking out all around him. He hadn’t known he’d held his breath, until the lines turn to dancing dots, and he looks up into Bucky’s wide eyes. “I’d rather not,” he says, unable to keep his voice from clipping. 

Bucky nods. “We can drive.” 

Driving brings its own set of issues, however. Bucky wants to drive to New York and back on the same day, or perhaps break it up overnight in Philly. He insists that he has to be back for S.H.I.E.L.D on Monday, but with all that Natasha’s told him about Bucky’s flexible working arrangements, and the abilities of the 21st Century, Steve doesn’t believe that Bucky would get chastised for a few hours, or a day, delay, or even that Bucky’s work could be done with the help of Google.

Bucky mentions the importance of his work twelve too many times, until Steve deadpans with a devoid of emotion that he is definitely not feeling, “Were you going to invite me on your Hydra hunting trip?”

Bucky simply looks at him with dark amusement and explains, "I'm in charge of new recruits and it's D-Day, actually, smart ass." 

That relinquishes a fear Steve didn’t know he had, that maybe it wasn’t over, or that Bucky wasn’t going to tell him if it wasn’t. It’s quickly replaced with guilt, that Bucky’s already put his life on hold for two weeks for him, he can’t really expect him to keep pausing everything while Steve catches up, no matter that Bucky twice now mentioned running away from it all. 

Even so, for all that the cars are faster and more comfortable, he doesn’t want to spend eight hours in one in a single day, not when he has a choice. He certainly doesn't care to stop in Philadelphia, either, but Bucky argues through his teeth.

Steve knows that part of the reason is that Bucky reckons he’s still a touch precious, that he’s going to fall apart with too much stimulation, any little change is going to overwhelm him. What he doesn’t know is if it’s spending a whole day with a large assortment of family full of stories Bucky won’t tell him, or doesn’t think Steve is ready for New York except for the inside of whichever Barnes residence they’re going to. He might possibly be unspokenly nervous about New York himself but it's a decision he's made, and he needs to know sooner rather than later how he's going to feel after it. 

So he decides to fight dirty.

Steve finds his phone, he doesn’t have it on him at all times like Bucky seems to, there’s no reason to, but he waits until Bucky walks into the room until he takes it out.

He doesn’t move his eyes off Bucky’s face, enjoying the slight look of fear in his eyes, definitely not as much as Steve felt in the car but enough that it will start repaying his debt. Dialing one of the four numbers he has in his phone, he says, “Bucky won’t let me come visit,” and doesn’t wait for Tony’s response, just hands the phone over to Bucky.

He leaves them to argue in the kitchen, and brings back his sketchbook once he’s given Bucky enough time to compose himself.

“That was low, Stevie,” Bucky glowers as he passes his phone back. “Try that again and you can find somewhere else to live.”

There’s already a message from Tony. ‘The devil to my angel, let's find some ears to whisper into. Where have you been all my life?’ 

‘Dead’, is what Steve replies.

“I’m sure Tony’s probably bought me a house by now,” he says showing him the text, partly because he was never the funnier of the two, but he might be now, and also to appease Bucky so he doesn’t look up Steve’s Google history.

Whatever work S.H.I.E.L.D wanted Bucky to do he can do in New York apparently, Steve realises with satisfaction that he was right. The new, and improved plan, Steve adds just to be annoying, is to drive to New York tomorrow morning, meet with the Barneses, then stay with Tony in the Tower, whatever that means. The next day, when Bucky will be otherwise indisposed, Tony gets to ‘play’, which hopefully only means explore New York.

Bucky started the day far earlier than usual, so he skips a movie in favour for bed. Steve reviews the Barnes file only a few more times before he follows, feeling somehow exhausted himself. 

The bed doesn’t help much, however. He is tired, in every way that counts, but his mind is more active than ever. Afraid he'll stay awake all night unless he has something to calm him, to distract him, Steve waits only moments after he knows Bucky has reached a deep sleep before he rolls him over and slips an arm over his hip.

After 18 months, 66 years, and an extra 2 weeks tacked onto the end, Steve is going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I realised how long this chapter ended up, I forwent (forgone, forgoed?) editing. Just accept the many issues, please and thank yous.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But they've made it. And Becca always had the most fire of all of them, matching Bucky, so he’s not really surprised when she comes charging down the front steps before the car has even pulled up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment section, I dearly love you. For people who are still reading and may be too shy to comment, I love you too, but after the adorable hoorah of the last chapter I leave you all with these two pieces of information that you shall do with however you want.  
> First - I tend to over tag, just so I don't unknowingly have any unearned triggers (however pls call out if I've missed any).  
> Second - I do have ideas for, at the very least, two more short works in this series.

Steve sleeps what he would describe as fair, but he equates it to Bucky's proximity, because between Steve waking at dawn and them leaving Bucky's definition of 'early', with a car packed of far too much stuff for only one night, Steve's mind is tossing and turning like he knows his body would have if it hadn't been guarded by Bucky all night. 

They’re barely out of D.C before Steve feels his thoughts turn horrible and his heart contract wildly, all signs of nervous trouble brewing, as dangerous as a Molotov cocktail. The car is too small for his too big body, his chest too small for the enormity of what’s trying to fit in it, and while right now he’s doing a good job at hiding it, he doesn’t trust his future self more than anything in this actual future. 

“Can I drive?”

“You know what, Stevie? I’m glad you’ve decided to show this funny side of you, if only a bit late. I might even ask you to stick around if you keep it up.”

“Come on, Buck.” 

"You do remember what happened last time you drove, yeah?" Steve clenches his jaw because he does, but he was rather hoping Bucky had forgotten by now. He's done a lot more reckless things since then, it barely even seems relevant. "Don’t make me the bad guy here. You don’t even have a license.”

“I do, actually. S.H.I.E.L.D gave me one.”

“I definitely did not okay that,” Bucky grumbles.

“It’s not a stick shift, Bucky. I just have to put my foot down and go.” There's no dancing around it so he prepares himself, and offers meekly, “There’s not even any cliffs near here.”

“There were no cliffs in Germany and you still managed to find the only goddam one! I am not rappelling 60 feet down a rockface to haul your dumb ass out of the crumpled remains of my nice, expensive car.”

“I thought we were done with the names.”

“That’s not a name, Stevie, that’s a fact. I told you to turn left, and what did you do? Went right. I do remember you being there when we learnt directions in school, so to this day I'm still confused where you went wrong with it.”

“I’m always right. Just thought I’d stick with it,” Steve tries weakly, just like the first time, and it works just about as well, a quiet, concerned fury rising behind Bucky's eyes. “Please, Buck. It’s basically a straight road, even I can’t mess that up. Just for a bit, an hour, at most. I’ll sing the whole way, otherwise. I’ll be so bored, there’ll be nothing left but to sing. I’ll do it,” and it’s only after a chorus of Steve’s threats that Bucky pulls into a gas station with a soft glare and aggrieved sigh. He doesn’t doubt that Bucky secretly likes his cajoling, it’s nothing less than how they spent their teenage years. For Steve, it quells his uneasiness for only the time he's speaking, but he’ll take it. 

Steve doesn’t bother even getting out, just climbs over the front and takes the wheel to another thrown look from Bucky, who gets them gas, coffee and surprisingly, food. He just shrugs at the questioning look and says, “Technically this is a road trip. Snacks, it’s a whole thing these days.” Despite the hour they share chips and chocolate and a whole lot of sweets Steve has never heard of, but far from hates. He tries not to make a big deal about how actually _even_ the food distribution is, or how often Bucky reaches. It's not an ideal meal choices, but it’s the first time Steve has seen Bucky eat anything of his own volition, so he doesn’t fuss.

Bucky hasn't looked overly enthused yet about going to New York, and even mentioned video calling instead. There was no anxiety, not like other times, but just a general air of displeasure which reminded Steve that Bucky said there was nothing left for him in New York. It's hardly true, with the four generations of Barneses they're about to meet, but for now, Steve doesn't want to let Bucky's own ideas or history to determine what happens. He offered this visit, so Steve's taking him up on it with no take backs. Becca is turning a ripe old 90 this year, and not a type of 90 that Bucky is, so he’d never want her to make that effort for him. Even worse, Gracie and Evie both recently passed, making Steve horribly aware of the mortality of a Barnes, so this isn’t something he’ll pass up. Now, at least with him driving, he can make sure they actually get there.

And that’s what he’ll say if Bucky asks further about his sudden desire to command a giant steel death trap.

The honest truth is, Steve needs a distraction more than staring at green signs of the I-95 and the wonder of how shiny modern day cars are. 

It’s more than the jitters. Steve is apprehensive, anxious even, about going to New York. Bucky was right, Steve had never played ‘When I get home’, not aloud at least, but sometimes when the night was too quiet to sleep, or the march was secure enough, Steve’s mind wandered, just a little. It wandered down his own foreign body and how it would fit in with New York now that he had changed, but even how much the city itself would be changed. At first he’d been gone only a few weeks on the USO tour, to six months, then a year, and approaching 18 months Steve knew there was going to be a distance between him and his home that might never lessen. He doesn’t even know what happened to their _stuff_ \- everything Steve packed into a cardboard box and left in the dingey apartment block basement. He’d checked through the laptop but there was nothing in a museum about it, and Bucky couldn’t tell him if his parents had managed to grab anything, but that their apartment was dozed down, so the most likely answer is that its rubble and dust by now. There sure as hell wasn’t anything worth selling.

Steve wonders if it’s going to be more like a funeral than a road trip, his celebration with Becca a wake before he actually buries the past. There is the problem that he hasn’t had much experience with either, and the unknown is as terrifying as what he’s feeling about his upcoming grief. He was barely a few months old for his Pa’s funeral, had been to a few memorials of school mates, dug graves for Allied men when they could spare, but there was never a priest around, just Steve’s poor efforts at a graveside committal. The only, proper, actual funeral he went to, was his Ma’s, and that was-. Well, he buried his mother, there's nothing more that can be said. Bucky was there, like he is now, for the bit that Steve wanted him and did his best, but there’s not much anyone really can do in a situation like that. It’s not a matter of more or less, but Steve has a feeling that coming back to New York might hold the same sort of gravity on his soul as losing his Ma. 

And by god, if he even begins to think about the funeral he tried to hold the other night, driving off a cliff would be the least of both Bucky and Steve’s problems. 

Bucky just stares out the window, fiddling with the station or reaching for more snacks, seemingly oblivious, looking relaxed, but every now and then Bucky shifts and looks like he wants to reach out. With Steve driving, it's the metal arm that's closest to him, and either it's not as grounding, or Bucky can't find a way to do so casually, so nothing eventuates.

Steve both does, and doesn't, appreciate it. Bucky's touch might be an additional welcome distraction, but the one functioning part of Steve's brain tells him that it might be too _much_ of a distraction. While he felt lighter in a way he never did even when he was skin and bones for telling Peggy, he's now since regretted it. Before that, he seemed to be able to keep himself in check, could act, could lie, could be happy being around Bucky in any capacity. Now, now is the first time he understands how people refer to it as an illness. It's taken over his mind, stealing his breath, and the parts that Bucky touch is where the disease starts, infection burning hot, skin tight, sepsis flaming through his fast pumping blood and poisoning the rest of his body. It's painful, and almost debilitating. 

He's sick, in a way he's never been, and there's no medication he can think to help.

“Aw crap,” Bucky suddenly mutters, oblivious to Steve's internal crisis, but still looking slightly stricken. “I didn’t- we missed it last week.” Steve takes his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot him a questioning glance. “It's Sunday. Did you wanna go to mass? I can probably find one along the way.”

Steve chooses his words carefully. Bucky knows him, and enough of the Church, too well, to take his answer without explanation. He can't lie, not about this, but he can't tell Bucky either, so he hides the truth in a double meaning. “No. I don't think there's a place for people like me there anymore.” 

Bucky looks surprised, his phone already up in what Steve assumes is research of available services between wherever they are and New York. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

“'A murderer must be put to death, as it says ‘He shall be avenged’. Leviticus, Exodus, there's plenty others, or plain and simple, 'Thou shalt not kill.' Sure did my share of murdering over in Europe.” It's not a strong tactic, but it'll have to do, and as long as he stays as stubborn as usual, he should be able to get through this conversation relatively unscathed.

“That's not even, that's -," Bucky falters, blinking a few times. "I’m pretty sure He’d forgive you,” he says, unconvinced.

“It's okay. I knew what I was signing up for. I made peace with it long before now.”

“But isn’t war okay, by the way of the bible, if you did everything you could do to avoid it? Which you did.”

“Not sure signing up five times is exactly avoiding things.”

“It’s not like you went over there with the intention of killing people. You wanted to stop the killing of people. Innocent people.”

“Does it matter the reason? I don’t gotta explain it to you. Or Him. I still did it. I’m not upset that I did it, and I wouldn’t take it back. And I can still believe in what I want to, but I just don't think I should be doing that inside a church, or near anyone else untouched.” He takes a breath. Bucky still seems uncertain, but there's a way to pull on his heart strings just enough. “I’m not sure what I’d do if that’s all changed too.”

“I wouldn't know,” Bucky says after a few moments, and it's sad. “I gave up on that a long time ago.” 

“Why’s that?”

“Never was the place for me, in the first place,” he says, with a tight smile. “Mostly think my parents were happy that it kept me out of trouble for a few hours a weekend, and made Ms Rogers like me enough that I could take you out for a tumble after on Sundays. In the end it added an extra few notches on my dog tags that meant to protect me from the Nazis, but I can’t say it did much.”

Bucky's got a few of his own redirection topics that hurt Steve's own heart, and the morning is quickly turning morose. “Ma did say she only thought you were there to sneak some wine,” he says with a half attempt at a grin, and it works. Bucky looks rather pleased that was his mother's impression of him on the matter.

They swap again just before Elizabeth, so Steve can prove he’s not an idiot - there’s no way he’s driving through a city he doesn’t know, let alone New York. Steve keeps his eyes forward only, not really looking at much, not wanting to add any more emotions into his struggling chest at the differences from what he knows should be.

He has a sudden logistical fear at how they’re going to manage so many relatives cramped into Jamie Barnes’ Midwood home, he stopped counting after 50, but its quickly overwhelmed by the grief that he'd trade them all for another two. Gracie and Evie, both still young and vibrant the last he knew. But no longer. It only makes him want to see Becca more, and more, until he's drowning in his own despair.

But they've made it. And Becca always had the most fire of all of them, matching Bucky, so he’s not really surprised when she comes charging down the front steps before the car has even pulled up.

“Ma,” a child, though old, Bruce he surmises, says exasperatedly after her.

Steve doesn't bother with words, only pulls her in. He can _breathe_ now, it's a miracle in itself, now that he knows she's still here, but there's a miracle in that _she's still here,_ in a world where it's only Bucky and Peggy left. She fits in differently than she used to, though this time it’s both their faults, and through it all he can still feel the Becca in her bones. She doesn’t let go, and neither does he.

“My goodness,” she says when she leans away eventually. Steve wipes his thumbs under her eyes, they’re spilling a little. His aren’t yet, but they’re burning enough that he’s starting to have trouble focusing on her. “I saw the pictures but it’s so hard to believe you’re the same Steve. He is actually Steve, right?” Becca says to Bucky, who just chuckles, and shrugs. “You didn’t check?”

“How would I check, Becca?”

“I dunno,” she pauses for a moment, then asks, “Has he punched anyone yet?”

Bucky laughs, and says, "Yes", as Steve punches him lightly, but that only proves their point.

“How could I be anyone else?” Steve asks, smiling down at her, but Becca’s smile falters a little as her eyes flicker to Bucky.

The moment is gone as quickly as it came, and she says, “I just know how trouble follows you around.”

“It doesn’t follow him, Becca, he finds it. He’s still finding it,” Bucky whines.

"Well, I half imagined Bucky's Tony made a robot of you or something like it. I'd trust you two to come up with something so stupid."

Steve raises his eyebrows but Bucky sends an exasperated look towards Becca. "It's meant to be a surprise."

She looks him up and down a few times, and Steve almost expects him to have to spin on the spot to pass her inspection, but Becca just makes a harumph of a noise. “Well, not the Steve Rogers I know but I suppose you'll do. He used to be the same size as Claudia, you know,” she says to Bruce, and the few people milling on the stairs.

Claudia, who comes barreling out the door.

“Bucky!” She yells, slamming into him with an audible sound.

“Hiya, squirt,” he says with a laugh, patting her head.

Claudia keeps her hands around his waist, laced through tight at the fingers, but lifts her head to peek through to Steve. “Hi, Steve,” she says, a little shyly.

“Hello Claudia,” he replies, and her face lights up at the realisation that he knows who she is.

“You gotta come meet everyone,” she urges with an animation Steve has missed while being at war, away from children, away from innocence, and pulls at his hand. He’s strong, and on a relaxed sort of guard these days, but even Captain America is no match for a 12 year old girl on a mission.

Steve lets himself get dragged inside to Bucky’s clear amusement. Behind him, Bucky leans in to kiss his sister's cheek, with a quick hug. Over Claudia’s excited chatter, he can hear Becca speak softly to him. “I’m so happy for you, Bucky.”

If Bucky replies, it’s lost in the sudden noise of the crowded house.

“This is my uncle Steve,” Claudia says, leading him around the room, as if she’s known him her whole life and was in the presence of friends, or introducing him to strangers.

Another child, Freya, though her eyebrows are full by now, is indignant. “He’s my uncle too, you know,” and it’s met with chorus from another, Frankie.

“Yes, yes, fine, he’s everyone’s uncle,” Claudia waves her hand.

“Not my uncle,” Bucky points out as he enters the room, his arm linked through Becca's. 

Claudia stares at him, hard, for a moment, far too much racing through her eyes for someone so young. “Humph,” she decides on, and looks away. In that moment, a few features have been lost along the way, but it’s a mannerism he knows far too well from a much younger but just as stubborn Becca that he bursts out laughing. He wouldn’t take it back, though, Claudia is looking incredibly pleased at his reaction.

She's undeterred by Bucky, or her cousins, and grabs his hand again, this time leading him around to make proper introductions. She's almost as thorough as the file, but much more exhausting, even if it is entertaining. 

"Alright, Claw, leave him be," Bucky says, once everyone's properly said hello and shaken hands or kissed cheeks, and it looks like she means to drag him somewhere else.

"Can't make me," she retorts, sticking her tongue out at him. 

"Oh dear," an adult says, while Jamie sighs, "Not in the house." There's a preparation in the room, whatever is about to happen clearly happens a lot, but Steve watches in anticipation. There's a beat, then Claudia's off like a shot, Bucky only marginally behind. 

"Don't cut my tongue off, Bucky," she giggles, ducking around furniture and legs. "Cuz I'll hav'ta to get a metal one and ice-cream will be all cold and everything else will taste funny."

"Then keep it inside your mouth, where it's useful," he growls, grabbing at her, obviously holding back. 

"Claudia licked his arm once, dead of winter. It got stuck, and she decided to unstick it herself. It was rather a mess, quite a bit of blood and many more tears, from the both of them. Bucky's had a penchant with tongues being where they should be ever since," Becca explains as the pair run from the room, bounding around the house. She steers Steve out of the way, fortunately, towards a seat, and places a few scones in his lap.

For all he thought the Barnes’s residence, from 1940’s, was absurdly loud, his suspicions are now confirmed. It’s a ruckus in here, with so many voices competing, but somehow no louder with 60, then just their six. Steve made seven, but he added no more than a church mouse most of the time.

These new Barnes accept him just as easily, and whether or not Bucky has forewarned them, they’re incredibly sensitive about what they choose to talk to him about, even the littler ones. There’s no questions of how he’s finding himself in a world spun so far off its axis, but they’re forthcoming with mundane stories of what he couldn’t google, pastimes that Bucky has yet to share, and Jamie fills him in on the Brooklyn he grew up in only a few years after Steve left, and how he's watched it changed.

The children are a delight, even with their pestering for pictures different from actual pictures because they’re termed ‘selfies’, and requests for stories that most certainly have come from the comics because he has no recollection of them. Half of the teenagers lose interest, when Steve admits he doesn’t have the shield, he’s not exactly even sure where it is, and Bucky pointedly ignores him at that part. Steve files it away for a later discussion. Along with all the others he's too coward to bring up. 

The 60’s and 70’s are fascinating when recounted by those who grew up in it, and Steve dares to ask about the work that those still working do. It blows his mind, the options that there are, and bores away the remaining kids who are constantly fighting for his body and his attention.

Bucky mostly leaves him to it, but whenever Steve notices him near and looks up, he catches Bucky watching right back. Each time there's a roll of his eyes or a scowl, but it makes Becca beam and Steve duck his head, feeling bashful.

It turns out Bucky has been unsurprisingly not loquacious about his childhood, and Steve finds he has to talk as much as he listens, about the Depression, his schooling, and penny sweets, but he learns quickly all talk of the war is banned by catching Becca's eye and an imperceptible shake of her head.

Sometime after lunch, in the middle of a story from Gracie's eldest granddaughter, Jessica, there’s a tugging on his sleeve. Frankie, quietly, leans him down to her height and says, “Bucky says you draw?”

“I do. Do you?”

She nods, and fidgets before asking, “Can you draw me a picture?”

He grins, and pulls her ear in close. He waits until Bucky is speaking, distracted enough, before he whispers, “Stick your fingers up Bucky’s nose and I’ll draw that.”

Her eyes go wide and she turns her lips in on themselves, clearly weighing up her options. Where Claudia seemed to enjoy Bucky's chase, Frankie seems slightly more cautious. He motions his head for her to grab him a pencil and paper and draws a plan for her, a stealth entry and a quick but secure exit, and his drawings seem encouraging enough that she puffs herself up with false bravado. He smiles sweetly at Bucky who looks over, clearly aware, but that was all part of it, and from behind, there’s a scuffle, and a yelp, before Bucky pulls sticky fingers out his nose, scowling, to the squeals and laughs of the kids. Steve just shrugs and says, “All’s fair,” stopping short at finishing the sentence. It’s hardly either, at a stretch war, Steve’s own nose had been recently violated with paint, but the other, he told Peggy he would never admit to as much to anyone else. He turns the page over to start his sketch, and Frankie slinks back, hanging her small frame over his knees to watch. Whether she wants his protection from Bucky, or is interested in the process of picture making, she settles in like they've done this before a million times.

No one bothers him when he’s quiet for too long, lost in his paper, not even Frankie, who watches diligently from her angle. There’s a few that peek over his shoulder, but they say nothing, just move on.

It makes him smile, so much that his cheeks hurt, a burn that the serum doesn’t take care to somehow fit right back in with the Barneses where he left off.

Until he's slammed back down to reality, where exactly he is, how it came to be, and it’s far from that.

Becca seems to notice the instance it happens, and orders him with a crisp tone to join her on the porch for a cup of tea. Alone. He’s infinitely grateful, and in that moment Steve leans on Becca more than she leans on him.

There’s a swinging chair that leaves enough room for another occupant, but Steve sits so close that he has no choice but to be reminded that Becca is there, that there’s someone other than Bucky who will understand, and hugs an arm around her for his own comfort, but she settles in. Her head falls onto his shoulder, a difficult position to drink from, but he’s willing to give up the pretense if she is.

Becca starts, and Steve’s glad, because he’s not quite sure where he would have. “I can’t imagine what this must be like for you. It’s all a bit much, isn’t it.”

“It is, but not all in the worst way,” he promises. “I’m happy I got to come back home. I’m just sad it took so long, and even sadder I missed Gracie and Evie.”

“They did well with their lives, don’t you worry about them. They’d only want for you to do more with yours than think on what could have been.”

Steve shakes his head with a despaired chuckle. “I think that’s easier said than done, but I’m getting there. God, what a life. What would you have said if I told you this would be it back in 1942?”

“You could’ve shocked me into a heart attack at too early an age, but only because it was usually Bucky who talked the most shit.”

“I don’t know what you thought of me back then, but I hate to break it to you, that’s definitely not true.”

“I thought the world of you, Steve, no matter I talked back when you tried to discipline me. I don’t if you ever knew, but Bucky wasn’t the only big brother I had.”

“I did, Becca, I sure did.” Steve will take all the comfort he can get, he takes a sip of his tea. “I was rotten the day I said goodbye because I was angry you said you wanted to be a nurse. I was convinced you were dead the day you signed your name. Thought I’d failed, you and Bucky. Failed all of you.”

“How do you think I felt, hearing you were shipped off for the front lines! You weren’t even still in New York for me to yell at you for it, or tie you to the bed to stop you going. Of course, that was before I knew, but I still would have been angry no matter your size." She sighs. "It was no small comfort that you found your way to Bucky, in the end, in all of Europe. I knew whatever he found himself in, you’d be by his side. I was never even surprised we got your letters so close. I was just devastated that you never came back as Bucky did. I wish we were having this conversation sooner, but of course I’m glad we can even have it at all.”

“I’d trade anything to change that.”

“I know you would. But you can’t.” She shuffles her weight, settling in closer to his chest, and he adjusts his arm accordingly. “You know, of all the things, hearing you were alive isn’t the most shocking.”

His face twists in an grim smile she can't see. “It’s the body, right?”

“It’s just so _big_ ,” she says, and pokes at his chest. “Hard, too. And my god, the things Bucky said you can do.”

“I think even I’m still getting used to it, some days. Like right now. We'd never sat like this before.”

“I did used to think I’d crush you if I hugged you too hard. I’d never be forgiven for that. I'd dream about it sometimes, a gravestone that said, ‘Little Stevie Rogers, loved to death’.”

The name from someone else causes something of a physical reaction, and her head turns towards him in question. “No one really calls me that, except now Bucky.”

“I think it’s quite sweet.” He hums, and from their position, he knows she will feel the vibrations against her face. “You don’t like it.”

“It was just another thing that was so different from what I’d just come from, but I don’t mind it now. I think it keeps him happy, at the very least.”

Becca’s body tenses and he knows they’re at the crux of their conversation. “How’s he been? I do get worried about him." She says, tentatively. Then, more confidently, "But I’ve never been less so than I am right now."

Steve doesn't answer, just watches the street while sipping down his tea.

"You can ask me, you know, the things Bucky won't say. He won't like it, but that's his own fault.”

“I wouldn't even know where to begin," he admits. It's not entirely true, so he starts at the beginning. "He said something. Only briefly, on one of the first days I woke up, and not since. About your parents.”

She sighs again, and this one is deep, all the way through her body.

"It was awful. That war tore my family apart, no doubt tore everyone's apart, but I can't look beyond my own. I know they were proud at the start, for doing his service, for rising to a Sergeant so quickly, but I'd never been so scared. After all we knew about Pa's unit, about your own Pa, I thought he was going to die. But they'd tell anyone who'd listen, proud as peach, until we got that first letter. I’ve never heard Ma make a sound like that, I’m just glad Grace was still at school and Evelyn was at work. It broke her heart, so bad I think it broke her mind, too. And it didn’t even get better, after we got a letter saying it had been a mix up, not even when we got yours or Bucky’s letter not long after. It was weird, I think part of her had accepted he was dead already and wouldn’t unlearn it, but when Pa explained that prisoners of wars were allowed to come home, and he never, she just-. I don’t know the word for it. And the only thing Pa would talk about, for hours on end, was how the army had turned into a farce, that he hadn’t come home, and that they even let you in there in the first place, let alone we found out you were a Captain. I think he was angry, and devastated himself, because he knew better than any of us what actually happened over there. And poor Gracie had to go to school each day, and hear the bulletins. Evie just took it all in her stride, but she helped Ma as firmly as she could.”

Steve hadn’t realised his grip had gotten tighter, and he releases it, before he hurts Becca. She drinks from her own mug, and continues.

“I knew before anyone had even told me, because I’d heard what had happened to you when it did. There was no way either of you was coming home without the other, so I just knew. I stayed nursing till the war ended and did my bit, it was only a few months anyway. When I got home, they never showed me the second letter, never said how it happened, we never even spoke of it at all. I can’t even say it broke Ma’s heart again, because she was too far gone by that point. And all the knowledge Pa held onto just turned him selfish. It wasn’t a family, not any more, I think my parents only stayed together because it was easier, for my sisters, and even when they left for their own lives, it was easier for both of them. Us girls, we moved forward, but they never did.”

He can hear the house continuing on inside, but try as he might, he can't find Bucky's heart beat.

“And then, like a bloody alley cat with nine lives, he came back a third time. Obviously, it was, he was-.” She takes a shaky breath. “But I didn’t care how different, how hurt he was, I got my brother back. Everything just was _fixed_ , instantly for me, or was fixable with some good effort from those involved. But not for anyone else. I did everything I could, and when Bucky was ready, Evie helped, and then Gracie, but my parents wouldn’t even see him, they wouldn’t even acknowledge he existed half the time. We got them in the same room together once, a few years later, but it ended so awful, so badly. Gracie didn’t stop crying for days. After that, I think he only saw Ma three of four times before she died. It was just too much for the both of them. He came to her funeral, of course, but even that was a shit show. Pa actually accused him of killing her, said Ma’d never recovered from what he did to her, and Bucky just let him. I’ll never forgive either of them for that. My father died a bitter, lonely old man, but I can’t even blame him for it, because a terrible part of me can’t deny that there’s some truth in it. But us girls were good, and I like to think that it was enough for him. He said it was, and he’s so much better than I think he could have been, but I know he was never happy as he used to be, before any of the war happened. Because he never aged, I was so scared he was going to be like that forever. But now, I don’t think I have to worry.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you, B,” Steve says quietly. “And your family,” he adds, placing a kiss atop her head.

“I’m mostly sorry it happened to Bucky, at all.” Steve doesn’t realise his chest has changed it’s pattern, shallower and quicker as he tries to override his upset with oxygen, not until Becca looks up in concern and asks, “Do you want me to get Bucky?”

“No, I- no.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just almost not as nice to hear it as you had to live it. I’ll be okay,” Steve promises. “I don’t want to worry him.”

“Ah,” she says in understanding. “Well, I don’t blame him for that. He’s spent your whole life caring for you, you can’t expect anything different now.”

“It seems a bit more than that,” he confesses.

“Have you not listened to anything I said, Steve? You pair have a habit of dying, then not being dead. Bucky’s just making sure you don’t disappear again for 66 years. Though I will admit he doesn’t always have a middle ground these days. He just needs someone as stubborn as him to bring him down a few notches. Which is why I’m happy you’re back, and you’re here, home, in Brooklyn, even if it’s just this once. I’m glad you dragged him down too, before you both go back to your lives in Washington.”

“I’m not so sure. I knew it would be different, but I never really imagined a life that’s not Brooklyn,” he admits, because Becca never moved either, she’ll understand.

“I don’t think Bucky imagined any of this life. But it’s better for him, so I can’t begrudge him not visiting much, because it’s the only time he does something selfish.” He asks the question on his face, and Becca smiles, but it’s sad. “It’s usually only if he has to for work, or if it’s somewhere outside the city. I think the memories are hard, sometimes. And if it’s not the memories, it’s just New York. It’s too busy, there’s too much going on, it’s hard for him to feel settled, to relax.”

Steve opens his mouth, with so much more to ask, but he can hear footsteps, he knows they’re Bucky’s, so he refrains, except to nod when Bucky pokes his head out to say it’s getting on, and they should probably head off.

He’s grateful for his talk with Becca, but it’s a turn in his mood he knows he can’t come back from. He immediately misses the soothing weight against his chest that kept him sane during their conversation when she rises.

It’s a comfort he craves with all this knowledge, and he’s not even sure he’ll get it tonight. Steve hasn’t clarified, because he half wanted a glimmer of hope at the end of a bittersweet day, but not knowing is just adding to his upset now. There’s no way he can think to ask, that doesn’t have to dodge around a fine line between queer behaviour, and why he even wants it. For more than Bucky's sake. 

It's now Steve's.

Steve needs to fall asleep in the same bed as Bucky, knowing inevitably they'll wake up in the morning, tangled up together and Steve can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. With the jokes Tony has made so far in their direction, Steve’s maybe not sure it’ll be a problem, but he still has to answer to Bucky.

“Don’t you dare leave it another 68 years before you visit me again, Steve Rogers,” Becca reprimands, the last of his goodbyes.

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, with a wry smile and a mock salute.

“Look after him,” she whispers when he goes in for one last hug, and when he pulls back, there’s another shine of tears in her eyes. He looks over to see Bucky wrestling Claudia from the car where she’d snuck in the backseat, with enough humorous grump that has her squealing in delight.

“Hands where I can see them, Rogers,” Bucky calls back, with a foot in his face. “That’s still my baby sister.”

He gives out a yelp as Becca slides her own hands down his back, and twists out of her grip. “I think we’d be best looking after each other. For real, this time,” and it’s enough to appease her.

“Let me know if you need to escape Tony Starks’s clutches tomorrow. He can be quite, well-.”

“He’ll be worse if we don’t leave soon. He doesn't believe in traffic,” Bucky says as he wrangles Claudia up the stairs into her father’s grip. He gives his own kiss to Becca, and jerks his head towards the car, and Steve follows.

There’s nothing so far that sticks out like a sore thumb like Bucky promised Tony’s ‘Tower’ would, and it’s not until he sees that they’re heading towards Manhattan that Steve relaxes the pressure on himself, that he feels at having to quickly rearrange his mood to something pleasant before he meets Tony. Of all the few people Bucky’s mentioned so far, Tony seems to be very, if not the most important person in his life. There’s another added pressure at making a good impression on, especially after all he’s done for Steve, after all Howard did and Steve never thanked him.

His relief doesn’t last long, when a long drive just gives him more to recognise, or not recognise, and it’s only when he actually sees a street sign that he realises that they're on Flatbush Avenue, dangerously close to home.

A home that’s no longer home.

It’s nowhere important, however when they get stopped at a red light, the sight of the corner brings burning tears to his eyes. Steve’s never been a crier, a few stray tears here and there, but he’d had to have thick skin to survive, so he’d never sobbed or wailed or babbled since he was young. Only once, he remembers and it’s right here, and threatening again.

Actually, it’s not threatening. It’s happening.

His Ma pulled Steve out of school the day before their excursion to Brooklyn Museum because two children in her hospital had just died of Scarlet fever, and she was scared he’d never survive a second bout. Despite being far too old, 14 at least, he’d screamed and sobbed like a newborn on the corner of the street, digging his feet in so hard she had no choice but to let him sit himself on the steps on the street corner and ride it out. All he wanted was to be normal, to not miss school for whatever disease was floating around, to be able to run around at lunch without his lungs crying as hard as he was now, to not feel his own bones on the hard concrete as the unfairness of it all consume him. She’d done what she always did best, stroked his hair and rubbed his back, with false promises of another time, but then she was gone, and back in an instance, with an ice-cream, meant to cheer him up. But he couldn’t enjoy it, he’d only ever felt like a burden on his mother, straining her beautiful face with worry, and the knowledge that she’d skipped worked and wasted money on what could have been dinner. But she’d talked to him of love, of how she’d met his Pa, and what it was like to love someone, no matter what, and how for all his sickness, it didn't make him lesser, it just made him _him,_ for all Steve didn't want to be him. 

It's more than a memory, it's like Steve is actually reliving it, seeing it displayed before his own, blurring eyes, and that's it. He's off, quieter than he was at 14, but he’s still crying, he’s still the same person, in the same place, and still sick, but in a different way. Right now he’s home sick, people sick, and even possibly love sick, and even this far into the future, there’s no cure for any of them.

He feels all the same feelings he did then in their glory, ice-cream cold on his teeth that he feels down to his imploded heart, with an extra 66 years cherry on top, and not even any promise of Bucky’s warmth tonight. 

Bucky, who is doing a great job of respectfully ignoring him, letting him get himself under control before saying ‘I told you so’, and Steve is grateful. 

They cross the East River, and well into Manhattan, hand pushing into his chest in an attempt to push away the tidal wave of emotion, it’s not until Steve makes a noise, halfway between a wet gasp and a whimper, that Bucky acknowledges him. 

“Stevie?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“Sorry, just need- a,”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It’s just-,” and he can’t hide this, not in the car, only inches away. “I finally feel it's all too much.”

“Aw, fuck me, Stevie,” Bucky breathes, almost a whine. “You got some timing,” It’s not harsh, there’s a little concern, but there’s something else in it that overpowers it.

Steve thought Bucky was ignoring him, but Steve in turn was ignoring Bucky. When he looks at him, Bucky’s faced forward, eyes darting, his hands gripped white on the steering wheel. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. He looks stiff, like he’s been sitting like that for a while, and Steve can tell he hadn’t actually noticed Steve until his outburst. 

He’s vigilant.

No.

It’s more than that, he’s nervous, he’s-

Scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in the process of moving, which means less time to write/intermittent internet so I'm not trying to be cruel with any delays.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stevie, Tasha last week, it wasn’t just Hydra. I-,” his eyes dart to the mirror again. “Fuck,” Bucky mutters, and this time it's all scare. “Call Tony,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist (is it though?) 
> 
> ~TW for canon typical violence, including guns.

There’s so much racing through his veins right now, none of it meant to be panic, but at Bucky’s body language, Steve feels the slim, cool fingers of fear tickle down his neck. He sucks in, an unsuccessful attempt at air, and when Bucky’s tension doesn’t dissipate, when in fact it grows and licks at Steve only a foot away, his own personal distress is quickly replaced by dread.

He feels like an idiot for expecting anything else after a few good days. 

“Buck? What’s going on?” 

Steve gets no answer other than darting eyes, to him, then back to the rear and side mirrors.

“Bucky,” he tries again, gentle but commanding, without the slight fright of before. His Captain's voice, he hates every second of it, hates using it on Bucky like this, but he knows no other way. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, but it’s grim, it’s a lie, until he adds, “Yet.” Bucky's heart rate is up, high, too high, his grip too tight, his eyes moving too fast Steve doesn't think he'd even be able to see anything. 

Steve doesn't ask, he demands. He's not accepting half answers, not when he's stuck in a car with someone who might very quickly become not that person, as far as his experiences have shown. “Talk me through it. What’s in your head.”

Bucky swallows, Steve can tell it’s dry, and when he speaks, his voice gets caught in the back of his throat. It’s level though, he’s almost impressed, for all the outward signs of anxiety Bucky is showing. “I told a select few at S.H.I.E.L.D where we were going, and surveillance or protection wasn’t necessary.”

“And they’re tailing us?”

Bucky takes them off FDR Drive, into the traffic of the Lower East, stop-start at best, and it’s not doing anything for Steve’s new nerves.

“No, that’s the problem. They’re not.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” he says slowly, and Bucky’s eyes stay glued to the rear-view mirror. It's no better than the constant tracking.

“Your shield’s in the back,” he says, so quiet and low that for a small instance Steve thinks he’s imagined it. “Please.”

The cold is back now, the same cold as when he woke that very first time, any trace of his sad from before instantly vanquished. Steve twists around and ruffles under the bags until his fingers brush something familiar, familiar and awful. It’s so artfully hidden that he’s sure he wouldn’t have even noticed unless Bucky had said something.

But he has.

And whatever reason Bucky’s brought it has him so spooked now that he’s a ghastly pale, and swallowing hard.

Steve doesn't feel far from the same way. The shield stands for fighting or show reels, and he knows it’s not the latter that Bucky wants it for. The comfort of something he knows in the future as well as he did in the past is lost by the bitter in his mouth at the feel of it, what it means. He’d not wanted to hold it, not so soon, there’s a reason he hadn’t asked, had put it in the back of his mind, but regardless, he grips it tight and brings it to the front seat.

He nods sharply, rewarded by an almost imperceptible relaxing of Bucky’s shoulders when he catches sight of the shield covering most of Steve’s body sitting down.

“Alright, shield’s up,” and he’s not imagining it, Bucky seems more confident with the words. “What about the agents?”

“Doesn’t matter what I say, they’d babysit regardless. Especially now that you’re here.”

“So if they’re not, something’s happened. To them.”

“Maybe,” Bucky rebuts, arguing in hopes it's true, but there’s no real belief behind it.

“Could they have gotten lost in traffic?” It’s weak, and Bucky barely huffs, that’s fair. “Alright,” Steve steels himself to say the words, hoping, praying, desperately, that he’s wrong. There’s only so much that can actually scare the colour out of Bucky like it has now. The one thing that is running through his mind is what that they’ve only briefly touched on, that Steve would be happy to never touch on again, that _both_ Bucky and Natasha said was done with. It’s not quite at that level, but he can almost taste in the air that it's well on its way to getting there. “You think it’s Hydra?”

Bucky nods harshly himself, skin around his eyes tightening at the word. 

“Natasha said it was taken care of.”

“It’ll never be taken care of, not for me.” He takes a deep breath, a deeper exhale and says, “Stevie, Tasha last week, it wasn’t just Hydra. I-,” his eyes dart to the mirror again. “Fuck,” Bucky mutters, and this time it's all scare. “Call Tony,” he says. Steve fumbles for a moment for his phone, but it turns out the car is calling for him anyway. Over the ringing, Bucky looks at Steve, gaze piercing, and licks his lips, before saying, "You trust me, Stevie?”

“Course.”

“Then do exactly what I say.”

Bucky waits until Steve nods before be turns back forward, and his whole body shifts, his face composing into something Steve doesn't recognise. 

Only he does. 

Steve doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before Bucky accelerates. He pulls up the handbrake and turns the wheel violently. 

The truck hits Bucky’s side.

Steve has a moment to be angry, furious, at Bucky, who obviously maneuvered the car to take the brunt of a likely deliberate crash, but it’s gone the second Steve realises it’s also flipped the car, and rolled it into intersection, right way up. There’s no traffic incoming, so Bucky releases the handbrake and has a block to speed down the wrong side of the road. In the rear view mirror, wonky now, Steve can see 2 black cars behind them. They’re gaining, and the traffic has started to flow, beeping, so Bucky’s weaving, cars sliding out in front to get out of his way. 

New York, _Manhattan_ , of all places, to be involved a car chase. It’s just Steve’s luck.

The only thing that could be worse is that it’s not Bucky sitting next to him right now. It is, but it’s the Bucky that Steve saw that awful night, the one with murder in his eyes. There’s not quite the same death sentence, but it’s close and his face is blank, even the stress that was fear has been replaced with a terrible calm. He's not sure he'll weather the storm that's brewing, he needs someone, anyone, else. The ringing from the car has stopped, broken off when the car was somewhere between upside down and downside up. Steve fumbles for his own phone, but it's thrown somewhere, he's not sure. He turns to look on the back seat floor, but sees the car gaining, a man sitting out the window of one, reaching for what can only be a weapon.

Steve turns back forward. He hates to ask, but does anyway. “Guns?”

“Glovebox. More in the back,” Bucky says simply. A bullet hits their car as if in response, but Bucky looks no more irritated than if it was a fly. Actually, he's been more so by the creatures. This is a Sunday stroll. 

Steve’s not even surprised the car is armoured at this stage, or that he didn’t see Bucky pack any guns, just pulls open the glovebox to reveal two handguns. He slips the short barrel of one into the waist of Bucky’s pants as more shots kiss the back windshield. They don’t penetrate, not yet, but the glass is starting to splinter.

It reminds Steve of snowflakes. 

Beside them, two police cars start sirens, matching their speed. 

Steve looks to Bucky in question. “Those aren’t police.”

Not that he thinks that police could do anything, not if Bucky’s this, this _Not Bucky_ , not when they both know who else is out there, but he knows them not being police is far worse.

Bucky swerves hard right, into one of the police cars, full power of their SUV against a sedan. There are only a few seconds of resistance, full acceleration, before it spins out of the way. The remaining three cars follow, following left out the alley on to a completely deserted street. No, not completely deserted, just free of traffic, but not parked cars, nor roadworks. And there’s- 

A man.

A broad figure, dressed completely in black, from foot to head.

Just standing in the middle road. 

“Brace,” Bucky says calmly, almost serenely and it’s such a peaceful shock that Steve actually forgets to.

Bucky’s arm flies out across his chest as he slams on the brakes. The police car beside them flies past, not stopping in time. It’s only a second, but they wait for the impact of the two behind them. 

It comes, and it’s less than the truck, but still enough to move the car forward several yards and whip his neck forward. He has enough sense to bring the shield up between him and the windshield, but the seatbelt and Bucky's arm do their job at stopping him making more summer snowflakes and flying out through it.

Slightly disoriented, a small whiplash ache, he looks down to see Bucky unclipping his seat buckle, pulling the shield up to cover Steve’s face further. “One enhanced, more so than you, a team of at least ten, unknown enhancements. Head North, towards Empire State. Go fast, don’t worry about stealth, Tony will take care of the rest,” he says, as Bucky Sangfroid Barnes. It could be a grocery list, or telling the time. He climbs through the backseats, towards the trunk. “I’ll cover you.”

“Like hell,” Steve growls in response, but Bucky’s already picked up a rifle and kicked out the windshield. Ducking, he aims at figures Steve doesn’t even see until they drop.

“You promised,” he says, in his untroubled manner, as he switches his rifle for a shotgun.

Steve can’t move, just watches Bucky who looks tranquil, graceful, _beautiful_ even, as he cocks his head to the side, staring at the angles of the bullet dents against the metal of the back of his car. He’s seen this look before, he knows, it’s the same one Bucky had in the Howling Commandos before he lined up a kill. And- now Steve knows, it’s the same features that have bled into this now nightmareish Bucky.

“Go on, Stevie. Tony will find you. You’ll be alright,” Bucky says, and lifts, the same instance there’s a bang and another figure falls forward, unmoving.

It’s almost hypnotic, his voice, the lull of calm around his thumping heart, so much so that Steve thinks it’s his own idea to kick open his battered door, covering his body with his shield.

But out of the car, out of reach of Bucky’s spell, gunshots ricocheting around him, kissing metal and concrete, the trance breaks. Ignoring Bucky, he runs forward to the first parked car and takes cover at the bumper after he sees it’s empty.

There’s the one police car ahead, possible five targets, and the figure in black. Bucky is taking out the two black cars from behind, but ahead he hears the wet squelch of bullet finding it’s heart or head, and he thinks Bucky impossibly has all angles covered.

A bullet narrowly skims Steve's oWn head, so he throws his shield at an angle to his target, from the police car. He’s rewarded with a muffled thump, not caring for it as he tackles another figure, dressed in black, but not the man who was waiting. He briefly hopes they’re not S.H.I.E.L.D, but considering they look like they’re trying to kill him and Bucky, he doubts it. He takes the opponent down with a single punch as his shield comes rebounding back.

He can hear gunfire behind him, so Bucky’s still firing, and the noises have become less and less frequent so he assumes the shots are successful, targets bullseyed and incapacitated.

Another man appears beside him, but Steve slams his head into the car so hard both he and the car crumple. Steve’s trying desperately hard not to kill, even when Bucky’s obviously not, but the splatter he gets in return for his efforts makes him think he’s not doing a good job. It’s not the time, but he mutters a quick prayer, eyes upwards, before steeling himself.

There’s glass on the ground to his left, a side mirror from who’s car Steve doesn’t care, but in it he can see the figure in all black, _the figure_ , walking towards him, leisurely, as if he has all the time in the world.

He looks like a predator, top of the chain, hunting his prey, and right now, Steve’s feeling every ounce of it.

“Get outta here,” Bucky calls, but the figure lifts his own gun. It’s big. It’s ‘he shouldn’t even be able to lift it’ big, and Steve knows without a doubt, this is the enhanced Bucky identified. Worse, is that it's enhanced _and_ Hydra, a more than deadly combination that Steve wants to not even, ever, exist.

It, _he,_ fires into the car, a blast so strong it flips the SUV, and Steve’s stomach lurches violently. He can see movement moments later, kicking out a section that’s compacted in. Bucky’s still alive, but the figure raises the gun again.

Steve has to move. Now.

Shield up, he makes to barrel into the figure, but a shadow from behind pulls his collar back before he can. He hits the car door that was his cover, hard, and raises his arms in defense. 

“Do not engage,” Natasha hisses as she jumps over his head. For a moment, he’s startled, by her presence, then her strength, speed, her combinations as she fights the enhanced. “Go, Steve!” She yells as he stands still.

In her distraction, the figure gets its hand around her neck, the power crushing against her throat, immediately disabling her. He lifts her, toes barely sweeping the bitumen, and squeezes tighter. Steve tackles him, forgoing the shield to do so. Natasha is dropped to the ground as they skid across the road, but before he can further his offense, he’s flipped onto his back, staring into a black mask, black goggles, which Steve is sure there would be an ecstatic murder gaze behind. He can still hear shots to the side, Bucky’s shotgun, a scrambling and coughing from Natasha, still alive, so Steve focuses on his own now.

Not quick enough, he takes a punch to the face, check shattering, head hard into the concrete and he knows without the serum, it would be instant death. He’s not even sure nothing’s broken now.

This is not a normal being.

But neither is he.

He gets his hands up in time to stop the second punch, but whether he’s outmatched, or it’s been too long, he’s struggling with both hands to hold the figure’s one. Steve kicks once, twice, but the man doesn't even flinch, not even a breath, so he brings up both feet, ready to launch with all he's got.

The man jerks forward slightly, ducking just in time from a bullet from Bucky, which places itself into a building behind them.

Not wasting the distraction, Steve flips the man over his head and rights himself. He thought he’d at least get the figure onto his back, but he’s quick, too quick, he’s disappeared before Steve is even steady on his feet.

Wary, scouting, Steve runs to retrieve his shield. Bucky stalks forward, shotgun still cocked with another across his back, handgun in his back pocket, hair a little mused, but seemingly otherwise unharmed. He pulls Natasha, still gasping for air, to her feet, and behind a car. Steve joins them, crouching low, and Bucky’s blank eyes give him a once over, taking in his injuries. There's no movement behind them, either Bucky, or Bucky and Natasha, took care of the two black cars and the police, Steve the rest.

There's a faint ringing in his ears, a small trickle of blood running down the left, telling him one of them has burst, but he can still hear the grate of Natasha’s battered throat as she rasps, “Confirmed 90 minutes ago.” She loads a handgun from a hip holster. “Thought you’d make it to Tony’s, at least.”

“We’re two miles from the Tower. You got ears on him?” Bucky replies, still calmly vigilant, a gun fight hasn't pulled him out of his eerie manner, if anything, maybe it's worse.

“He knows, he’s-” and she’s cut off with a sharp crack and a wet sound.

Steve immediately brings his shield up, covering her, Bucky firing back, before the blood has time to seep from her chest.

The masked man has somehow positioned himself in the opposite direction all three thought, leaving them sitting ducks, open against the car. Most of all Natasha.

“Cover her,” Bucky orders, and moves his crouch to the balls of his feet.

She gasps a little as Steve drags her out of the way, opposite direction behind another car, pressing to her wound. It’s less her chest, more so her shoulder, Steve breathes with a slight relief, but it’s bleeding freely and her own already difficult breath is coming shorter. Her eyes are open, but dilating, fixing on his.

There are retaliation shots from above as Bucky pounces, and Steve makes to throw the shield, but Bucky’s got a sort of shield of his own. Bullets fly off his metal arm, ricocheting into car doors and windscreens as he dodges in between quicker than Steve thought was possible, but should have known. 

When it’s apparent a bullet’s not going to stop Bucky, the figure drops from above, closer than Steve realised, completely annihilating the car he lands on.

Steve can’t let Bucky fight this alone, not if he said Steve wouldn’t be enough, two of them might stand a better chance , but Natasha grabs at his forearm as he makes to stand. “Do not engage,” she hisses, again.

“Bucky-”

“Will handle himself. If he doesn’t, then it is my directive to get you out of here alive. I can’t do that if you die.” That’s not enough for him, if anything it’s more fuel to his fire. She knows this, and grabs at him, this time holding. It’s stronger than he thought she could be, but she lasted against a figured that had him flat on his back immediately, so this time he’s not surprised into paralysis, but actually held back. “Stay, protect me. James will be awfully upset if you leave me to die.”

Bucky, who is currently hand to hand with the figure.

The figure that despite either of their strengths, they both only lasted a few seconds, and took enough damage to take them out with fair permanency.

But Bucky, Bucky seems to be _winning_. 

It’s as if he knows what moves are coming, where they are coming from, before they are even a thought in his opponents head. Bucky is fighting with a knife now, _from where?,_ dropping it from hand to hand as they blur, almost too fast to track for even Steve’s eyes to track.

It doesn’t last long, knocked across the street, but it’s no matter, because Bucky has another weapon.

His own arm.

Steve’s never thought of it that way, not like Bucky does, more of a replacement of what should be, an extension of who he is. But now, now, he can see the force from afar, the car doors apexing inwards around it, concrete shattering like fine glass when the figure dodges Bucky's hits. He can hear the smacks against the man’s body, cracks like a whip, but he takes back his previous thought, neither of them are winning. It's a mirror, a reflection, evenly matched. 

It's _dancing_. The same dance, trained in the same studio by the same teacher from birth. There’s a beauty in it, a chilling and disgusting beauty like when Bucky lines up his rifle to take a life. The fluidity of their movements, the confidence in their bodies, the strength and speed and raw humanity of their fight, it’s captivating, something Steve could never draw, would never get just right, because it's perfect. So different from any fighting he's ever seen, ever known, fueled only by quiet, even breaths from the both, and an occasional flick of the head when Bucky's hair flies in his determined eyes.

But they’re too close, and the man has his own knife, too close, and it slices through Bucky’s jacket.

It’s enough of a distraction for Bucky, who jumps backwards, it looks like the damage is only superficial, maybe not even skin deep, but it’s a break in their pattern that the black clad man needed, and he kicks out at Bucky, hard in the chest, so hard Bucky flies all the way across the street into a shop window. The man saunters forward, but lazily, almost with the same calm that Bucky has been radiating, that leaves a bile in Steve's throat and tears pricking his eyes.

It’s enough of a reason for Natasha to be damned. He leaves her the shield, for all she says she wants to be protected, and lunges himself between Bucky and the figure. Steve is more prepared this time, only slightly, knowledgeable from the short observation of Bucky. He doesn’t land many blows, but he’s quick enough to dodge those aimed at him, the knife only slicing the top layers of his skin as he blocks with his forearms.

Steve holds long enough to sense Bucky only a few feet behind, before he’s doubled by his own hit to the stomach. He rolls backward, absorbing the impact, just slightly left of Bucky’s feet, and Bucky instinctively pulls him upright.

The figure is clearly enjoying this, for all that his entire face bar his forehead is covered. He makes no move to advance, just rolls his neck, as if that was the warm up round and the bell has just rung. 

Timer set, bets placed, and crowd rearing, Steve feels no more than prey. Bucky’s stillness screams the same, rabbits in the eyes of a wolf. 

Steve can’t see the eyes, nor the mouth, but he knows, can almost feel that there’s a smile behind the armour. Bucky moves forward, no worries or pain in his body, but one arm out in front of Steve mirroring the second crash.

Before any of them can move further, the devil lands between heaven and hell. The real one, not Bucky, not Schmidt, not an angel with torn off wings. This devil has fire and light beaming from his hands, and feet, and out his heart.

That’s the devil for sure.

If he was made of metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, action is hard.  
> Feel free to talk to me, I'm in a hotel quarantine, self isolated for two weeks.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not much coherent thought, his mind pounded and his heart pounding, but Steve is able to choose the words, “I don’t understand.”
> 
> “Before Peggy bought him, your boyfriend here was Hydra’s best weapon,” Clint explains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proof reading while drinking - guess we'll find out?

Steve is half convinced the Devil is here for him.

Maybe he heard his confession in the car or his admission to Peggy, so Steve awaits his judgement, already feeling the heat wrapping around him, burning away the cool fear he’d felt only moments ago. As quickly as the full wrath of Satan blinds his vision and envelops him in flames, it stops, and for the second time the black clad figure is nowhere to be seen.

It’s not deliverance he’s waiting on, not from Adversary, so Steve stands tall and poised to throw himself in front of Bucky if need be, hoping he can hold more than he did with their opponent before. Bucky makes no move at all, not other than to turn Steve roughly by the shoulders, a second injury sweep. The fallen flying figure appears to stand guard, murmuring and shooting what Steve can only describe as witchcraft from his forearms and hands, and a series of shimmering light appearing around them.

This is not a Devil that Steve knows.

But one that Bucky has put his faith in.

“He’s gone,” Bucky states with inarguable finality to the creature Steve’s yet to identify. Still exposed on an open road, Steve doesn’t trust the see-through walls surrounding them. Bucky agrees, he’s gone, off like a shot without the actual noise, vaulting over the car Natasha is still bleeding behind. Steve reaches them seconds after, the new red and gold figure following even later, both in time to see Bucky ripping his undershirt. His impassive face tracks up and down Natasha’s body, cataloguing against her throat, her chest. He rips the material again in two, one in front, one behind the bullet wound, in attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“I’ve got a car coming, 45 seconds. S.H.I.E.L.D can clean this up,” the metal, possibly friendly if he’s still here and hasn’t turned his power against them, gestures to the street. “Nat, bleed on my seats and best believe I’ll bill you the cleaning.”

Bucky tugs Steve forward by the waistline of his pants and fumbles one handed at his belt buckle. It takes a moment, but Steve’s hit hard head and racing mind eventually rationalise the action. He undoes his belt and lets Bucky slide it out of the loops in order to strap it around the makeshift gauze across Natasha’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says to her, looking very much not as he tightens it, layering the leftover length of leather under the taut compression. Natasha places her hand over his, calm as he, and they share a conversation that no one else hears. Her face is hard, and his eyebrows twitch in response, the most reaction he’s shown since their SUV rolled on 6th Avenue.

Steve cares, he is concerned, for Natasha, but there’s no immediate sign she’s in a critical state, so he can't bring himself to show more emotion about it than Bucky currently is. He’s – he’s not sure what he’s capable of feeling right now. It's too much, but he's aware there’s a 66 year old mourning in his aching heart, adrenaline and energy from the fight in his constricted veins, a lingering fear at the calm of Bucky’s attitude on his clammy skin, and a million and one questions of _what in ever loving hell is going on_ in his crowded mind.

If anything, the moving steel, he thinks its steel, functioning like a human is a welcome distraction. It’s a robot, technically incapable of making him feel any way, so he stares, taking in the grooves and plates like when inspecting Bucky’s arm. Bucky follows his gaze, notes his amazement, and opens his mouth. Steve’s almost glad when he hears a slight exasperation in, “Don't you dare."

This, this is awareness and feeling, this is what he _does_ know. How to bring Bucky, his Bucky that has finally called out, to the surface of wherever he is so buried deep within. "I want one," Steve says firmly, with just enough off-handedness that it should scratch at Bucky’s skin and draw him out to itch.

"I will happily oblige, you, my dear boy, man, man-boy, Steve," the metal machine says, and the face retracts. Steve would be horrified, should be horrified, as the skin peels away for the motion is a reverse of the Red Skull, not human to red, but red to human. It reveals a sort of face that is familiar, not explicitly known, tickling his memory all the same. "Jeez, Bucky,” it breathes too, “I'm not sure why you haven't let us meet yet. It's not like you'd be worried Pepper would leave me for Adonis here, is it? Cuz I gotta tell you, that would never happen. He’s a specimen, but I am too, in my own right.”

Steve is quite sure this isn’t the Devil, nor any angel like it. 

"That's because Pepper knows she'd be trading one sort of stupid for another,' Bucky replies, still too far from Bucky’s voice, but it makes Natasha’s lips twitch in something other than pain.

The look of offense Steve and the metal _man,_ he’s settled on, is identical enough to make her lips curl into a small smile, and Steve is less concerned about her health, but somewhat questioning about her abilities. 

"Finally, someone in my corner!" The man exclaims gleefully at Steve's expression. "Everyone else here is too worried they'll say the wrong thing and Jimmy Boy will go on a murder spree like ol’ Frosty here, but I can already tell you're going to be good value."

The look Bucky gives the newcomer is very much the one that stole Steve’s breath and stopped his heart in the dark of the nightmare. There’s more emotion in his voice than before, but it’s not welcome here, it’s cool and menacing, sharp as he says, "Shut up, Tony."

Tony. Tony _Stark_ , with that moustache. Tony Stark, Bucky’s ill-defined something. Who is currently winking at him, unperturbed by Bucky’s killer eyes. It does ease Steve’s chest only marginally, there’s an ounce of trust he can allow Tony, will maybe even follow his guidance until his Bucky has returned, because Tony had only led him right so far. 

"Maybe you're afraid that I'll whisk him away from you instead, with my charm and roughish nature. You taught me all your tricks, Buck, but the student has finally become the master," Tony says as he slings his arm around Steve, planting a kiss just above the smarting on his cheek. 

Maybe not.

He may not be Lucifer, but he’s a Devil all the same. Steve feels the fire of his sinning blood flame up his neck and cheeks but Tony removes his arm before he has a chance to push him off. Or deck him. 

“Can you keep it in your pants a minute, Tony? I'm dying here," Natasha pants, still smiling, and it’s at that moment a sleek black car pulls up. 

Tony steps out of the metal, Steve might be centered enough to liken it to a suit, and it reassembles behind him, flying away with further fire and light.

“I’m guessing you’re not seriously injured or I’d be cleaning up the limbs Bucky ripped off and threw all the way back to D.C,” Tony says to Steve as he opens the door, taking Steve's shield from Natasha and giving it a lingering look. “I thought he was joking about you but he’s not. Barely two weeks and you’re already trying to pick fights with the baddest.” Bucky and Steve slide in, opposite each other, and help transfer Natasha in, who all but collapses into Bucky. He cradles her, carefully, lying her down, so her head rests in his lap, his thigh and hand pressing hard on her should to stop any further blood escaping. If there’s a driver, if it drives itself, this whole future world, Steve doesn’t care to add it to his list of confusion as Tony enters, shield by his legs, and it glides away.

It’s cold in the car, even this close to Tony who was just on fire, and Steve has no doubt it’s coming from Bucky. He's just staring at the entry wound on Natasha's shoulder, looking less human and more marble statue. Natasha must think so too, looking up at him, so she moves to press her hand to his cheek, murmuring in Russian. Tony waggles his eyebrows at Steve, but the joke is gone when Natasha’s skin makes contact and Bucky jerks his head violently.

“Buckaroo?” Tony speaks first, and Steve’s glad. He was no help that night, not before Natasha came, and its the same taste of cool fear in the air. Tony tries again. “Bucky?”

Natasha shakes her head at him, and Tony loses his gentle tone.

“We’re headed to the Tower, which you of course are aware of the security details. Barton got your family,” and Steve’s whole body stills, he hadn’t even thought, “all of them away. They’re being held at a safe house, where they will be watched, around the clock. They’re all fine, Buck, they’re going to be safe.”

It’s not a voice of concern, or worry, or fear, that answers, still looking resolutely at the very definition of not fine or safe seeping out of Natasha. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. It’s mine.”

Natasha says something, in Russian, and whatever it means is enough to Bucky after a moment. He blinks salt rapidly out of his eyes, breath coming in fast like he’s been under water too long, and the horrible mask washes into a face of boyish fear. In less than seconds, he somehow de-ages back to a child, not a man looking of his 30’s, let alone actually 94.

He heaves, looking around the car. “Sorry,” he chokes out.

“It’s okay.” And Tony’s own voice is kind again. “We’ll get cleaned up at the Tower, then decide what’s next, alright?”

Bucky nods, and willingly leans his cheek into Natasha’s hand, staving off tears. He looks more scared than her, more so than he was at the first sign of danger, his breathing shallow as he closes his eyes. In the dark, Steve can see her wound is fact bleeding onto the upholstery.

There’s a fleeting moment where the desire to reach out, to offer anything, cuts through everything else he’s feeling and not feeling. But he knows that him, in this moment points to inadequate, to fight, to help, to even talk, so nods to Natasha and starts attempting to ground himself with focus on his throbbing face and the distraction of keeping watch of the traffic and pedestrians which only moments ago turned on them.

“If Bucky says he’s gone, he’s gone, Steve. We’re almost there,” Tony murmurs as he picks up on Steve’s tension beside him. Trust, there’s people in this car and new world he can trust, and he does try.

If this were funny, or at least anything other than what it was, Steve would make a joke to Bucky that Mary, mother of anything holy, the Tower does stick out like a sore thumb. An ugly, swollen, broken and bent one at that, as painful as Steve’s face. But it’s not a situation of hilarity, and Tony said it was safe, Bucky believes it enough to follow, so Steve does too, blindly, feeling like the child he thought Bucky looked in the car.

Natasha doesn’t fuss when Bucky carries her in, bridal style, holding her even in the elevator, and Steve’s grateful for it because it seems to take the edge off him a little even though he hates the sight and his own connotation. The roof, maybe Google, maybe he was hit so hard his head is broken and his thought voice is actually leaking out his head, is talking to them, and Tony is answering. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, doesn’t even listen, just trails close behind the unit of three which is in sync in a way Steve misses from the Commandos.

He's not really, as much as he's trying to trust Tony and Natasha, his default setting is to follow Bucky, no matter who or what.

Bucky, who hasn’t looked him in the eye since serenely lining up his rifle for his first snipe of the afternoon. Bucky, this childish and terrified Bucky, who _still_ won't even look at him.

“Looks clean, straight through,” Bucky murmurs instead, staring at Natasha’s shoulder so intently Steve is worried it will hurt her further, catch fire or the stare will produce a dagger and slice larger than the small bullet did.

Steve’s a little incensed that his eyes appear to be working, but unable to focus themselves over in his direction.

“Of course it would be. It was aimed for the head, I’d expect nothing less,” she says simply, and Bucky’s eyes flash, his jaw tightens, the only thing cutting through his adolescent expression. 

The lift is quick, but not quick enough that Bucky’s face has time to turn hard, his scared eyes grown steely since her comment.

“Haven’t seen any headlines about you yet, Cap, but I think there might be a few after that little spectacle,” Tony muses as the elevator comes to a stop. “Might have got away with it, without the shield.”

“What would you have me do,” Bucky snaps, no longer child, maybe petulant teenager, as the elevator doors slide open into a room that looks set up for medical. He carries Natasha, pale, paler by now, blood soaked through onto Bucky’s tattered shirt and pants, onto a bed and perches her on the edge, hands a constant pressure on the wound.

“No one’s blaming you, James. Get that out of your head.” Natasha pulls on his collar, firm, so his head is drawn close to hers. They stare off for a few long moments, and when his jaw twitches, hard eyes bearing through to hers, she says coolly, “And don’t put it in mine. I did my job.”

“THEN WHAT WAS HE DOING IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING MANHATTAN!” Bucky roars.

She just stares at him, stares him down with hidden meaning, chipping away at every part of his body until Bucky whimpers slightly, and beside Steve, Tony stiffens. “No,” Bucky breathes, what's left of his face is despair. “Tony-,” he says, his head whipping around, as the doors behind them open again, a young, female, doctor stepping through.

"I'm sorry. It was always a possibility, Buck," Tony says sadly, as she attempts to usher them all out of the way. 

"Not to me!" Bucky half yells, half whines, stays solid in his spot until Natasha shoos him herself, nudging him with her toes to his hip.

He moves back a foot, but stands immovable, possibly a common occurrence, as the doctor simply works around him. Bucky watches helpless and hopeless, much like Steve is feeling, as she doesn't disagree with Bucky's diagnosis, and it's a flurry of tubes in to deliver fluids, hands inspecting Natasha's throat, preparing the tiny hole in her shoulder.

Now would be the appropriate time to reach out, to comfort Bucky as he watches Natasha’s should be fatal, at the very least damaging wounds, being attended, but as Steve thinks it, Bucky seems to retract in on himself, the tears brimming on his eyelashes. 

“How far off is Barton?” Bucky manages.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says, throw away, and Natasha looks up from watching her minor surgery, nothing more than curious. Steve is amazed at the quick work, the doctor's near finished stitching. Before long, she's placing a gauze over each side of the wound. "Alright, Plan Man next."

He finds his tongue, it’s been a while, and it’s slightly dusty with disuse. "I don't-," Steve starts.

"Sit," Tony forces him down onto the opposite end of the bed Natasha is on, and suddenly the doctor is all he can see. It's nothing he hasn't had before, and answers with half a mind, more than has been working thus far, following fingers and leaning into touch and relaxing as the doctor gently, but firmly, turns his jaw, prods his cheek and his head, and inspects the light slashes on his forearms. Through it all, he can't see him, but Steve can still hear Bucky's suppressed emotion, his heart beat so ragged it would be painful, eyes so wet the liquid should be sold to Steve to clean his dusty tongue.

"Cheekbone and eardrum will heal better on their own without me interfering, and the lacerations shouldn't take long either. Keep an eye on the concussion, I'm guessing maybe an hour. Ribs, fine, tell me if you start peeing blood, but other than that, rest, and no further activity. If he's like Mr Barnes, it won't take long to heal completely, and they’ll heal well, they’re clean. He's welcome to try something, for the pain, but I have no certainty about its effectiveness," she says with a disgruntled look towards Bucky. She stands back and inspects him, as he shakes his head. He's had worse, and no morphine he knows of will help. "My favourite patient, of all that gets dragged in here.” The doctor says with a smile. “It's a shame that I hope I don't see you often."

She pulls out a lollipop and places it into his hand. He stares at it incredulously, feeling like a lost child even more in this moment, but when he looks up, he might at least understand some of her comment.

Bucky's eyebrows are furrowed on his upset face, as she whirls on him, swatting hands away and pushing lightly at Tony. "I'm fine," he says, ducking away, swiveling, to stand away from them both. "I'm fine."

Tony reaches out and finally manages to grab at his jacket. “This is a nice jacket, Buck. A Kevlar jacket. And it’s got a clean swipe through it. Cho has an analgesic she wants to test, so if you’re hurt, just let us staple you up a bit.” Bucky shakes his head, and Steve searches the look, the sad, for any trace of pain. “If it works, we can give it to Steve,” Tony tries, but if he was looking to bribe Bucky, it doesn’t work, except to remind him that _yes_ , Steve is actually here.

It somewhat prompts Steve, too, feeling more present in his body than even the pain had given him.

Bucky straightens, turning to Steve, but still looking resolutely only at his jaw. "I told you to go," and it's dreadful, it sounds like disappointment, and despair, accompanied with clenching hands and cheek chewing.

“I’m not sorry.”

“Your face is,” Bucky wallows again, not that Bucky could know, he won’t look further than his jaw, and Tony and Natasha are watching with reserved interest.

“It's fine, I'll heal.” 

“You don't know that.”

“I do,” Steve insists. He does, he does know his limits, something Bucky had never understood. Steve’s limits as a 90 pound man, which were anything more than just existing, which is why he tried everything above and beyond, and his limits as Captain America, of which there were no limits, not for the freedom of his country and its people.

“You don’t know that until after," Bucky replies softly, awfully, enough to land on Steve's heart. "When you haven’t died.”

“I haven’t been wrong yet.” Bucky’s head jerks like Steve’s slapped him, swallow hard and tears immediate. It’s terrible, it’s unintentionally hurtful, and instantly Steve placates, “I didn’t mean-”

“What the fuck, Sarge?” A man, slim but toned, in all black, hisses as he strides into the room through open elevator doors. "You got her shot?"

“Hey-,” Steve cuts in, an automatic defence, and true, but it’s silenced by both Bucky and the man, who chorus in unison, “Shut up.”

“It’s not even that bad,” Natasha says weakly, but the man seems to have the same effect on her as she has on Bucky. She slumps a little, her mask breaking so completely as he walks over, and presses her head into his stomach. She stays there for a few moments, just breathing, relieved, and brings her hand up to cling to his pant pocket.

“Hey, you told me you were dying!” Tony exclaims, and it’s enough for her to tilt her head towards him, almost coyly, batting her eyelids, very much not looking like someone who was dying, or had even been shot. “Fine, whatever.” Tony throws his hands up, and waves them between Steve and the man. “Clint, Steve. Steve, Clint.”

"Yeah, no shit," the man, Clint, shoots, not even looking at Steve, just doing his own inspection of Natasha.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, in a same unpleasant tone, shrinking impossibly smaller, “For my family.” It only seems to make Clint bristle. He ignores Bucky and presses a kiss to the top of Natasha’s head, and begins murmuring, which makes Bucky’s face fall into a strained guilt, falling further and further until there’s no trace of Bucky, young or nightmare, only his face in the dictionary as the pure definition of the emotion itself.

“Russian,” Tony says to Steve. “Frustrating, right, I can't speak it either. And Barton's only doing it now to further push Bucky's buttons, the little shit.” He talks louder, cutting Clint, also Barton, off. “Whatever is so important, Clint, share it with the class. In English. Or I'll get Jarvis to translate.” 

Clint rises to the challenge, still staring intently at Natasha. “I’m just wondering how we always seem to find ourselves back here. Always a shit show when you three are together.” Tony seems to accept that with a tilt of his head, but Clint's not finished. “I’m was also wondering as to how I get a call saying Natasha's been shot, and that you were there, but not covering her? I thought that’s what you do, did, I don’t care the tense. And if it’s not, you need to do better," he says to Bucky. 

"I know," Bucky croaks, his pallor close to Natasha’s, and for a second Steve searches frantically for an unattended wound, an insurmountable blood loss. There isn't any, the wound is internal, Steve knows that, so he reaches again for Bucky. To do what, he’s not exactly sure, but no matter because Bucky flinches away, looking like he wants to sink into the ground, wants nothing more than for it to swallow him whole, but somehow also standing straight, to attention, for who, Steve’s not sure.

“No, Clint,” Natasha agrees. “That’s not the issue here.”

"You are hurt. That's not acceptable, not again," Clint urges.

"Shut up, or I’ll shut you up myself," Tony says, but he’s watching mildly.

"Indeed, enough," Natasha commands. "The both of you," she adds, moving her eyes from Clint to Bucky. "I am only going to say this once. I got myself shot. And if I was not good enough to avoid it, nothing either of you two could do would have been enough to stop it."

“I'll take the white flag and split it in two between the boys. We probably should direct our attention to the murdering assassin who somehow managed to get a jump on two super men, one, whatever you are Natasha, and most surprising of all, me,” Tony muses. For all his words, his demeanor is no more than discussing the weather. Not like Bucky's grocery list voice, but still odd, given the situation.

“You said you had him, a week ago. You said it was taken care of,” Clint says slowly to Natasha.

“It was. Now it is not,” she says, looking determinedly at his stomach.

Clint seems just as confused as Steve is, thankfully, and asks the questions Steve can't seem to form. “Hey,” Clint says, pulling her face upwards. “What’s going on?”

“We think that there might be more than one.”

“Well clearly,” Clint says dryly, and jerks his head towards Bucky.

“No, Clint,” she says, her eyes large, and, _scared_. It's just as terrifying on her as it is on Bucky, Steve's blood cold, stopping flow to his brain, inhibiting his thinking, his acting, which he only just started to regain.

Clint takes a sharp breath. “Well. Shit,” he manages out, and studies Bucky. He shakes his head, suddenly weary, eyes closed, and turns back to Natasha. “That's beyond not good. What do we do about it?”

“Just a suggestion, we should probably stop him from killing Cap. Preferably before the world has another funeral. Costly for the taxpayers,” Tony jokes. No one laughs.

“He’s probably just as likely to be trying to kill Bucky,” Clint puts forward, with another jerk towards Bucky. "Considering I'm feeling slightly inclined myself."

Natasha pauses, enough for everyone bar Steve, who is still scrambling to find a thread to follow, to take a collective intake of breath.

Bucky pushes forward, and for all Clint’s words and attitude, he looks sympathetically at him. “Tell me it’s a kill order,” Bucky pleads.

“It’s a kill order for James,” Natasha says, tip toeing her words.

“Oh God,” Tony drops his head forward and rubs his forehead with a hand. He dares, “So Steve…?”

She presses her lips together, and with the first sign of pain he’s seen from her, not even a gunshot wound equals what’s on her face to say the words only to Bucky. “Alive.”

Bucky lets out a short noise that Steve can only describe as a wail. It's awful, unlike anything he's ever heard, like death itself, or a cry from Phobos. His shock, his trap of adrenaline that’s kept him quiet this whole time, unable to do anything but led from car to place to room, to listen to a conversation he can’t make sense of, is bled out of him from his own unseen wound, mixing with Bucky’s tears. He feels his tongue clear, voice come back, his mind returns fully, as the others take in Bucky's reaction. 

“Alright, Buck. It’s okay, no need for that. We’ll work something out. Just, stay calm.”

“Yeah, that’s not particularly helpful, Tony,” Clint provides as Bucky’s eyes shut tight, teeth clenched so hard Steve is worried they’ll break.

There’s a small crunch, maybe they did, but no, it comes from Steve’s own hand. The lollipop has splinted in the vice of his grip. 

He’s done, a capital D.

"What the hell is going on?" He demands, using every part of his Captain's voice he can summon.

The room stares at him, the room except Bucky, who turns his head away, forgoing any pretence at not crying, eyes open to allow them to flow freely. 

"I’m. Confused," Tony says slowly, looking at Bucky. "And I don’t say that often.”

"Who was that?” Steve demands again. Clint and Tony's faces fall identically in horror as he stands, and Bucky seems to recoil, but from Natasha’s gaze more than anything else. There's a tenor in his voice he's never heard before himself, as he challenges. “Does Hydra- did Hydra actually make their own version of the serum? Their own version of a super soldier?”

“You don't know? You didn't tell him?" Clint whirls on Bucky, who makes a strangled sort of noise in reply. Clint’s less than angry, a type of his own distraught as he breathes, "Herranjumala, Bucky, you invite someone to bed and you don't even think to mention how you could accidentally murder them in their sleep?"

"It's under control," Tony warns, his air of disinterest now lost.

"I heard about Saturday night!” Clint is pleading, for Bucky, against him, Steve’s not quite sure any more. “Control isn’t really his thing, and right now he doesn’t exactly have a buyer, Tony."

No one is disagreeing, least of all a wet faced Bucky, who’s now a shade of grey Steve wants to paint over with any of the colours Tony bought him.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Tony clips.

“I’m just saying, Steve should have a right to know who he's going to be locked in a room with.”

“This isn’t about that, but fine,” Natasha sighs. "Steve, welcome back to New York, you're currently in a room with three trained assassins and the Merchant of Death himself. Are there any of your misdeeds you'd like to share so we can all move on to the real topic on hand."

"Don't be cute," Clint warns. 

Steve looks to Bucky, for help, no reaction, nothing further than more tears. “Bucky. What's going on?”

“Short answer, yes, they do," Tony says, with alarming sympathy. "Long answer, is, well. Steve, it's-"

After an uncomfortable pause, Clint finishes for him, "Bucky.”

Steve freezes. He’s almost glad, it’s the most sparing of reactions he could offer, his body unbetraying like his mind is threatening. There's not much coherent thought, his mind pounded and his heart pounding, but he is able to choose the words, “I don’t understand.”

“Before Peggy bought him, your boyfriend here was Hydra’s best weapon,” Clint explains, “Succeeded, I’m guessing, by the one you just had the pleasure of kissing cheeks with, if your face is any indication."

The words hit hard harder than the punch Clint's talking about, already leaving more than a bruise. He looks around, neck unstuck, waiting for anyone, most of all Bucky, to take them back, to deny them, to let him know it’s an awful attempt at a joke, that this is his own nightmare. That the future isn't actually real, that this is the blue cube Schmidt touched and it’s touched him too and in moments hell be about to bury himself into the ice.

But it’s silent.

So silent Steve can no longer hear Bucky’s laboured breathing, his swallow of tears.

"I know you are upset Clint, but those words were terrible words to think and to speak, and unkind to say to both Steve and James. I know you do not truly mean them but I hope you think on them for a while. But you are correct, it is about control. It is not in his control, and I hope that you never have to experience that for yourself." Clint ducks his head, chided like a school child, but Natasha's not done. "James, if you believe those words, if you mope, or starve, or… You better believe I will make you weep for Hydra instead. And I will know if you are pretending to not let them affect you."

She stares at him, glaring, but he's looking away, if he's even seeing anything through his still streaming tears. "James," she snaps, and he nods miserably.

“Now leave, I now longer need your childishness here. Go work out your real words to each other. Properly,” she adds sternly. “I will explain things here.”

“Don’t do this,” Bucky pleads, whipping his head up. His eyes are wide, begging, crying, but her resolve is firm.

“No. It was in your control, your choice, to tell Steve. You have had your chance, James, many of them, and while I waited for you to overcome your misguided fear, I have lied to your Steve for you. It's time now, and I no longer trust you on this, not to tell the absolute truth."

"Please don't do this," Bucky cries, no more than a whisper. "I can-"

"No," Steve cuts in.

He is still reeling, pain, confusion, horror, confusion, overwhelmed by feelings it’s all a swirl of every colour mixed on a cheap paint palette until it becomes a disgusting and muddle brown, but through it all there is a truth that he might not trust Bucky on this either. Bucky, who will barely look at him right now, has shied away from questions even of breakfast, a breakfast that Natasha had tried to tell him something, then a night time of the same, then a S.H.I.E.L.D trip.

He felt weak, he realised, in the car, in his own memories, in the fight, he’s still sick, but he’s not weak. He’s strong. He can talk. He can get back up, can fight, he can, he doesn’t want to but will if he has to, do this all day, for what he wants, and what he believes in.

He believes _in_ Bucky, but just doesn’t believe him right now.

Steve's voice is cool, mean, and every syllable he knows will hurt Bucky, but this has gone far enough. Two weeks, possibly two years, too far. "You don't get to decide for me." It's his turn to be unable to meet Bucky's eyes, but he hides it by looking only at Natasha. "I want to talk to Natasha."

Clint guides Bucky away, with a small “Come on,", his hand around Bucky’s elbow, and Steve shoves anger into his overfilled body. There’s a part that doesn’t want the man anywhere near Bucky, let alone touching him, but Bucky leans into him like he does Natasha, or Natasha to Clint.

“What do you mean? Why did you say he was Bucky?” Steve whirls to Tony after they leave the room.

“Uh, well, actually I’m going to take my leave too, um, I'll literally be anywhere else than here. Jarvis can let me know when you’re done.” He gives Steve a tight smile as he walks out, no glance back, none of them did.

“It upsets Tony,” she explains, a kindness in her voice.

But he doesn’t need kind. He needs answer. “Well?” He asks, coming to stand before her.

“Sit,” Natasha pulls on him, down toward the bed, a distance away as if she knows he may get overwhelmed by her presence as well as her words.

She does know, she always knows, Bucky said she knows, and maybe she can actually still see into his head or the puddled mush it’s left behind. She lets him slowly lower himself, and stare at his shoes, and grip the hospital grade mattress tight, chest burning before the conversation he knows he won’t like, but needs. Her voice hard, words carefully pick, systematic, emotionless, she begins. “Breathe, first. And then I will tell you a bedtime story, the one they tell the children of the Red Room of Russia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up!  
> (And by buckle up I mean please be aware that (I'd like to think my writing skills will emote non-fictional feelings somewhat similar to what is happening with the fictional feelings) that from here on out, content may continue to be heavy, and taxing. Triggers will be given where appropriate and added if any additional are pointed out and it is in no way an offense to stop reading for your own well-being).


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They owned him in ways we will never comprehend, and ways he will never forget, even if he doesn’t remember. Now, it is James’s greatest fear that this will happen to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for everything related to the creation/conditioning of a Winter Soldier, though it's fairly non-specific (some speculative and fitting for my story, some canon in the comics/MCU). Y’all mostly know this, but Steve doesn’t, so...

“I think, perhaps at first, I will bore you with information you already have, but for you to understand, for you to know the whole truth, we must go back to the very beginning and continue up to this very moment. There may be gaps I can fill in your own knowledge, deleted scenes in your own lived experiences, for there would have been things James would have kept from you, even then. Either to protect you, or to disconnect himself from them so that he could believe they were not real, and he did not have to exist with them. I think those ideas are part of why he doesn’t tell you now. But, from what I know of James, and I know him well, I believe he’s worried, he’s terrified, he lives in paralytic fear, that the knowledge will turn you away from him. And he spent far too much of his life away from you already.

Truthfully, it started long before you, in 1930, fated enough that was the year you and James met, he tells me. Abraham Erskine was still loyal to Germany at that time and began developing the serum you know too well. But not for you, for Germany's army of super soldiers. For years he worked as he had always done, but soon the country wore at him. Turned away by the tyranny of his country and its leader’s decisions, he escaped to Switzerland, but of course Hydra has its ways. Once again in their servitude, he resisted, in developing his research, in helping, but Johann Schmidt still managed to coerce an incomplete formula from him. Schmidt tested it on himself, and it changed him, but not in the ways he wished. So he was punished, Dr Erskine, he himself was a prisoner of Hydra, I am not sure if you knew this, for five years. Kept in darkness, allowed nothing but to work on his formula, until 1940, when in another event only described as fate, it was your Peggy Carter who rescued him. Dr Erskine came to America a good man after all he was made to do and all that was done to him, which is something you might like to keep in mind, and argue to James where you can. And he remained a good man, until his death, and as a result, you, the new you that the world sees as Captain America, was born.

Those years of the loss of Dr Erskine did not deter Schmidt. Science, is of course, universally free, and can be learned, developed, created, by anyone who has the right mind for it. So Hydra persisted, under the guidance of another great mind, one I wish, that we all wish, had never existed. Arnim Zola.

He, of course, knew about Schmidt's fantasies, and the danger of combining them with science, but even he could see the plausibility of results. Especially with what Dr Erskine had developed before him.

There are dates regarding Zola’s work long before, but 1943, James’s time in the Krausberg facility is where it truly matters. The prisoners taken from Azzano and other fronts were to be used to create weapons, the Valkyrie even, for Germany, that you know. Those who were unable to, were used as subjects to create another type of weapon. The super soldier serum that runs through your veins.

It was the Führer’s wish that the weapons were a priority, and they could not waste the strong men on no more than an entertaining make-believe. Zola did not mind, for his experiments to increase the spectrum of which to demonstrate their effectiveness, he was only trialing on sick prisoners, who could no longer prove their worth in the factory. In those conditions however, it was easy to make strong men weak.

James was neither of those, I say this because I believe he is more than what the word strong defines. Fundamentally, above anything, he was simply and wholly a good man. If he had been anything else, anything other than good, perhaps he would already be dead, in the factory, or later the war after your liberation, or of the human factor of age. But he was a good man, a good soldier, who cared for all the men in his cell, all the men in their position, regardless their orientation, so much so that the Howling Commandos all but formed long before your proposition.

Here is the first of the knowledge I am confident I am providing you. I met with your Dum Dum, who confirmed for me, and that they wanted to keep it from you. There was a Captain, Hauptsturmführer Lohmer, who was bored and disgruntled by his position of being no more than a child sitter to the prisoners in Krausberg. He made a game of it, looking for good men to break, and he found that in James. Well, he found the spirit and the promise of good, but had a difficult time in breaking it. He broke a great many other things of James, beatings near death, and often, but these were still not enough to remove him from the work schedule or to stop other prisoners rallying around him. So Lohmer removed the rally, and isolated James and his newfound close unit in freezing showers for a day, wet and cold. It was a popular method in Germany over the years, even from to ensure slow death. When they were released, the group, your Commandos, and those others hurt by Lohmer organised an accident against him, to prevent further torment of James and other good men. The Hauptsturmführer died, painfully, and no one was punished for they were astute enough to ensure it was nothing more than an accident. They did not know James would be taken regardless, for he had contracted pneumonia in his weakened state, as was Lohmer’s own carefully crafted plan. Even though dead, the Hauptsturmführer got his way, and served Hydra in ways he would never comprehend. The exact dates are difficult to determine, for all my efforts I estimate this only took place over a week, but that is how James ended up in Zola’s acquaintance, no matter what he did or did not tell you.

Which brings me to another knowledge you do not have, but perhaps have guessed at. Your experience with receiving the serum was vastly different. What only took minutes for you, the pain you endured, was five, or six weeks, for James. And still not perfect, for it was incomplete versions, hypothesis only experiments, further trials from previous, deceased subjects. There is not much I can specifically say about the time, little documents or shared by James, and no one else alive for me to question, but I do know, that the only way to test healing rate is to be injured, to test resistance to sickness is to be given the sickness, to test strength is to be put in position in which you must overcome all else. I think torture is too kind of a word, but we are much about kindness with him, you will have noticed, for he was deprived of it for so long.

But still, the good in him did not break. He persevered, and there you were, by which time the serum had already taken effect. Effects, which you know, strength, speed, agility, sharpness of mind, I did note that you were surprised by the lack of aging, as are we all. In fact, on the same path of fate, and I chose to believe it’s fate, a kindness that someone other than a higher power took all his choices away, he is quite a perfect match to you now.

But he did not get all that from his time in Krausberg, for that was not the only time he met Zola, or Hydra.

And thus begins James’s life in the aftermath of your death.

It is what he fears so much, for himself, for you, the time of your two weeks ago which begun his 66 years. I’ve told you before, they were long, and cold, and hard.

Although I am wrong, because it was the three days before your death, when you apprehended Zola, resulting in James’s fall from the train. He was found, alive, by efforts of his incomplete serum, almost immediately, and taken into the care of a unit of Soviet soldiers. By all means, they should have been Allies, should have cared, and returned him back to America, but Hydra’s reach had extended too far, and infiltrated even there. But James did not know, I believe he placed his trust in them, his Russian Allies. His loyalties, his missions and you, of the fall, they could piece together just exactly how important he was. But still, they did not know what to do with him. So they kept him, leaderless under a floundering Hydra who had just lost its head, awaiting another to grow two.

And Hydra did, but not immediately, for in the aftermath of a lost war, they struggled, uncertain of their path. Their main goal, yes, but the method of how to get there was unclear. So the Russian sector of Hydra kept him, in conditions worse than those of Krausberg, for years, until Zola was released from his American imprisonment. Know this, Steve, American did not just liberate Zola. Part of his condition of release was that he was to be employed by them, as were many other Axis and Allied scientists alike. Your country believed it was better to employ those who could be used against them, as the Cold War replaced the World War. It was no less than what they did for Dr Erskine, with success, all those years before. And there was no denying Zola’s mind. He agreed to the terms, and provided America great work, however he was still loyal to Hydra, and Hydra alone, as were many others in his position. Through his loyalties he heard of James, and it was only then he realised he was successful in ways America would never know. When the time was right, in 1948, as the Cold War was solidifying, he visited James in Russia.

James was impressive, of course, but not up to Zola’s standards, not like he knew you could be. So Zola returned to America, and with their help through employment, and funding, and facilities, he continued in secret his development of the super soldier serum. Only this time, he had partial access to the notes of Dr Erskine, and files on you. It was not complete, but it was enough. Once Zola was satisfied, no longer than a year later, James was given this version, and it is the one that still runs through him today, that allows him to best you, and almost all others.

Zola’s ecstasy did not last long, for all that he tried the same on others, failed, and failed, and failed. There were temporary effects, but nothing lasting, and nothing with the remark of James. Zola became to understand that his new serum had coupled with the first James was given, and would not bind to anything else. So he set to recreating the conditions of Krausberg, but still, whatever he had done to James and others, his research, his subjects, the first serum he required was no more when the factory blew up and James escaped with you. And James's new serum had coupled so completely the the old it was impossible for Zola to isolate the exacts to reverse engineer. In his excitement, it seemed Zola had not thought about the possibility of requiring James's original blood before he began. Both a blessing, and a curse, this momentary lapse in judgement.

Eventually, failure after failure, Hydra was forced to admit that there were only two recipients of a super soldier serum in the world. You, who was lost, and James, who was not.

Hydra, of course you know, believed above all that, humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. But without a war, society did not believe that there was anything to be liberated from, they were already free. And even if there was a war, there was not to be an army, a new era of super soldiers, so that Hydra could take over the world by force. They were desperate, and failing, and stalled in their mission.

However, in the worst way, the birth of Captain America birth, and the death, was the evidence Hydra needed to prove that one man could be enough to change a country, a world. America, during the war, used Captain America as a public figure of faith and promise. And the event of your death, the sacrifice, and the aftermath, they used you as a motivator to rebuild, and the country was kept in line by your memory, the idea that you died for their freedom. With James, they could create their own symbol.

But Hydra still did not have their war.

By then, their leadership had stabilised with the help of Zola, who was never called the Head, but ultimately was. No longer actioned by myth or the past like Schmidt, Zola’s radical leadership style based in reason led to the idea that Hydra perhaps did not need a war, that, as a secret division, they could continue their work behind closed doors, as Zola had even managed to do in the heart of America’s secret service. They could push society to a tipping point, to create wars with whichever country they chose, and let countries sacrifice their own men, all while keeping quiet to plan the next.

For this type of war, they did not need a Captain, or a Sergeant, or any type of typical soldier.

They needed the perfect operative, an assassin. Someone who could enter any country undetected, murder and leave no trace, take on his own army single handed, if needed. A ghost story, impossible to actually exist, beautifully crafted to carry out any and every deed Hydra wished.

The physical, the genius, the accomplishments, is what they had in James even as far back as Krausberg, but furthered by his time in Russia. He was allowed from his, his, area of containment, for lack of a better word, to train. It was brutal, but effective, and I know this, because it is what I was born into, many years later, in the height of the Soviet Union. They fashioned a program after his own treatment, a clearly tried and true method, which allowed even myself, as human as I am, to be stronger, smarter, and more efficient than anything else that exists even to this day. We were not given a version of the serum, but no matter, as you have seen what I can do. And this program, it enhanced him to the level you saw today. Fear not, I see it in your eyes, the program, the Red Room, was distanced from Hydra long since, I am not one of them.

Hydra did not expect, or appreciate, James’s continual resistance.

He was not quite so willing as you, not for a purpose that was not his. And the more freedom is forcefully attempt to be removed, the more resistance that it is met with. They tried many different ways to make him compliant, those I will not talk about, but know this, the Russians are not kind. His body resisted, in all the ways it could, but that was not their main hindrance, and was overcome in time with their methods.

Their key obstacle was his mind.

Zola had long reported James’ mental tenacity, even in the prisons. And through the training, with his growing strength, and his own presence of self, it was clear that he was becoming too strong to contain in Hydra’s cells. With the little that he feared that they could use as leverage, to control him, for how do you take from someone who has already lost everything, they came for his mind as well.

In the end, it was too strong.

They took it away.

That, in itself, was another series of experiments, led by Zola. Again, in the dark corners of the Soviet Union, in an apparently disbanded Secret Service Science division, they could only make such crude version of something Zola had begun in Krausberg, but not wanting to continue in America for he was already living dangerously by working on the serum. There were many failures in the journey of learning to erase the mind, erase the memories, the morals, but to leave all the skills, the essence, the spirit that kept him fighting all those years. The failures, all of which, James suffered for.

Like everything else, they found a way, and in the process, they stripped his memories of his life before, and during. A process involving electricity, and pain, and manipulation, and all manner of things that are too upsetting to describe.

Before long, they stripped him of all that he was as your Bucky, only leaving behind their creation.

The Winter Soldier.

Of all the things that were done to him, the name, I believe, is the most cruel, though others may not agree. But I argue this- a name can mean so much towards a sense of self, which is what kept him strong all those years, his sense of Bucky Barnes, a good man. The man they took away. But the Winter Soldier, an American Sergeant, found in snow, the words were to taunt him, to provide a constant reminder to a mind that could not make sense of or remember it, it’s-. It’s-, I do not have the words, in any language, for it. For the action, for the feelings it inspires in me, and for the things I would do if I were ever to come across anyone who had any part in it. The things I have done.

And yet. I’m not sure you will ever understand the incredulity of this, even sometimes I myself do not, which is what is so amazing and impossible about James. No matter their efforts, even removing all that he was, it was still not enough. No combination of physical or mental management, no matter what he went through, even after the machine that burnt away the trace of him, a semblance of memories, and a defiance would return, much to Hydra’s displeasure. A version of someone, perhaps your Bucky, would claw its way out. It was not enough for him to escape, to be free, but it would affect his work, his methods, the aftermath.

Even so, he was effective, and there was no other option, no other soldier that they could use, and he had caused so much unrest, and the world was entering chaos. So, between assignments, another kindness of a word for the horrors he was put to, they would take his mind, and then place him in a cryostasis.

Much like you, he endured the cold for far too long, and knows the act of waking up in different worlds and different times. But he also had a different mind.

For how many years he was awake, I have no other way of describing it, and how many years he was sleeping in ice, I do not know. I cannot find out, I do not think it was a high priority for those handling him except that his missions were completed, and James cannot tell me, for obvious reasons.

But I can tell you, the total time he was in their clutches was 23 years.

There is evidence of the technology advances of the world, combined with how far ahead Hydra’s abilities were, that a successful cryofreeze may have been first completed in 1957. Perhaps 12 years of consciousness, of training, of other forms of management to get what Hydra wanted. The remaining 11, is unclear. However, there are a great many world events which were impossibly achieved during that time, so I assume the worst, that it is not as much as I hope, that they were not as kind as they could have been, if being frozen in a deep dreamless sleep is such a thing. You would be the one to understand if it is or not.

Thus was his life, if you could call it even that, for 23 years years after your death.

In 1961, S.H.I.E.L.D became aware of a plan to assassinate the American President John Kennedy shortly after his inauguration. It was at that point they were made aware of the Winter Soldier’s presence and agenda. Suddenly, the world so far made more sense to S.H.I.E.L.D. In 1963, shortly after the assassination they were unable to prevent despite all their efforts, an entire division was set up in order to capture him. In 1964, they became aware of his identity, and Peggy Carter became involved. Involved seems like a poor word for it. There are not many words in all my languages that could described it properly. To say she dedicated her whole being may be more accurate. 

To the very few who hear the story, four years seems far too long. But for Peggy, it was barely enough to convince America that he was to be recovered, not eliminated himself. Your country wanted him persecuted for his crimes against America, and even those they did not know where in favour of America. Punishable only by death. They did not want a traitor, or an assassin in their history book, especially not a documented war hero portrayed as Captain America’s best friend. It would tarnish what they themselves worked so hard to create.

What she said to allow her to carry forth with her own assignment, I am not sure, and from what I know of Peggy, she will take that with her to the grave. And I don’t believe she gave them a long time to resist her, for she had much work to do, which would take time. This is where Clint’s crude comment based in truth comes in. The Winter Soldier is quintessentially a weapon. At times, with enough influence and good reason, Hydra could be persuaded to hire him out. With the punishments, and mind wipes, he would perform a task for anyone, as long as they were aware of how to handle him. Even now, the technicalities of it, James himself is a weapon, owned by many people, at one point even S.H.I.E.L.D. They don’t treat him as such anymore, he was relinquished, reinstated as an agent some time ago, but it’s still a lingering term, not easily forgotten.

But for Peggy’s mission, to make it secure enough, aware that she only had one chance, for both her and James’s lives, she spent those four years setting up an acceptable alias, a cover. She worked as an independent buyer, to hire him under pretence his services were required. She balanced the risk of waiting, this is true, against the unrest, and the people who died during that time, and the events James himself experienced.

I make no judgement against that. Quite simply, though horror occurred between 1964 and 1968, many more may have occurred later than 1968 if the attempt failed. I also make no judgement against her decision to rehabilitate him, where even James has said perhaps it would have been better had she executed him herself the moment she found out, or found him. 

In any case, what’s done was done. What Peggy had him do under her handle, I also do not know, and I do not wish to find out. Not because of the match I meet in her, but so that I never have to keep that information from James, betray Peggy to him like so. After completion of their task, she successfully orchestrated his removal, so securely that even Hydra was unaware for too long to chase anything but cold trails. His identity was kept quiet while he recovered, even until now it was speculation of who he is. He has turned their own training against them, and is able to remain undetected with his skills. The rest, Peggy has organised in a long standing agreement with S.H.I.E.L.D.

But it was not easy.

In truth, it was made easier by the year he had just endured. 1968, James says you have read the history books, you may be aware was busy for the world. The Tet Offensive, USS Pueblo, the unrest of the Vietnam War, Civil Rights movements across America, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy assassinations, and many, many more. There would have been no time for him to be frozen, therefore I assume, and I am provided with enough evidence, he was kept awake the whole time, simply surviving on having his memory removed between each assignment. The frequent abuse, there’s only so much even enhanced bodies, minds, like his can endure, and even perhaps physiologically he had come to rely on the reprieve. Without it, he was not well. He was not just a ghost of Bucky Barnes, but a ghost of a human, barely even a faint outline of a weapon. 

It’s disgusting, but perhaps assisted Peggy, in that it made it safer for her, which kept her alive, which allowed her to dedicate her years to helping him. His mind was completely broken, down to its bare minimum and at times, not even that. Sometimes, even the act of breathing, not the way I insist in him, but the simple survival act, was difficult and had to be relearnt. But it meant that Peggy could rebuild it the way she wanted it. It took him two years to simply recover enough to hold a conversation, having remembered the conversation of the day before, and a subsequent three to be able to live, without only just existing, surviving. To make his own choices, to live a life with a directive that was purely his own.

There is the issue that perhaps he has not regained what he has lost, but in fact that Peggy recreated what she thought to be correct, but regardless the result is the closest to the Bucky Barnes that you know. And James himself believes he is not new, but a shadow of his old self, which disproves my theory, and I will be grateful to be wrong.

For the years after, she helped to care for him, for as you saw the other night, her work was not perfect. Sometimes, even now, the conditioning breaks free, he reverts back to the soldier Hydra trained him to be. There is not much I know of it, as there is not much he can tell me. But it has never lasted long, usually with minimal damage. There was an incident, 30 years ago perhaps, where he lost control, but they were targets that would have required attention at some point anyway so S.H.I.E.L.D let it slide. They have offered, even Tony has offered, to look into his brain, to determine what exactly the process is and how to further assist, but for an appropriate reason he declines, he does not want people in his brain. Not again. Mostly he does not remember that state, _Soldat_ , we call it, for I refuse to call him a Winter Soldier, for the reasons I mentioned before. The after haze can vary in what he remembers, generally it comes back after a few days, but I think mostly it is very draining to remain as _Soldat_ and try to pull himself out. Some of the acts he committed as _Soldat_ he does not remember, which I think is the same, or worse, than the ones he does remember. And there is quite some time missing for James between treatments, flashes, glimpses. That which he does not remember, he asks. He curses himself to know, so he can bear the consequences, though they are not his to bear. It is easier now to say no to his requests, and he asks less these days. Whether he accepts it more, or he has his own methods of finding out, I am not sure. But we, as a family, focus on making new memories instead. I’d like for you to be a part of that.

But first, we must get through today. And now tomorrow.

You will have worked out by now, the incident, my visit, his reaction, were all connected and to this. When I say that no other serum was developed, it may not be entirely true, and only confirmed by my work this past week. When Arnim Zola passed in 1972, after successfully hiding from S.H.I.E.L.D, there was nothing to suggest he had succeeded any further in his quest, however, at one, single, brief instance of a _Soldat_ moment, there was a whisper in his eyes that made me wonder if we were all wrong, perhaps James was not alone all those years. It was not even a whisper, but enough to install a crippling fear into my heart, enough that I never mentioned it to James, and he never recalled it further.

There was never any evidence, unlike there even was with James who was the biggest secret that Hydra had, that there was another. But it was never a possibility I could rid from my mind. And with the knowledge I had on James, and his bare admission, all my own hypothesises pointed to another Winter Soldier, trained in the Red Room, perhaps even with or by James himself.

The knowledge was crippling.

James and I, we work together to keep Hydra from the world, amongst other things. Everyone says, and rightly so, that James is the best. And he is ever knowledgeable, especially about Hydra. But I think they are wrong. I often think of how much better he could be if he was not crippled by the fear of Hydra. Regardless, they are efficient and ever changing, so there is often not much work to do. Because we are both involved, and I know of James situation as well as, and even better than James himself, I found no reason to mention it to him. In any case, I did not have enough information on it. And I am good, Steve, know this, I was trained by the very people I was seeking to expose, and try as I might, if I found no solid evidence of it, then it is safe for me to be confident with my own efforts. I love James, and I trust him, but a confession made in that state, under the influence, with a health history such as his, was not enough to make my faith waver.

Even when I met Tony.

It was long after his parent’s deaths, and long enough after I met James, when Tony figured out who I was, where I came from, what I could do, and what I could do for James. He too, was unconvinced by his own revelations, and paralysed by fear to tell James, but too smart to ignore a lack of absolute answer.

Howard Stark, you know him well, and his involvement in Project Rebirth. But you do not know of him the years after, and you do not need to, except in that he only grew smarter, and more self-assured in his abilities. Including those of a project he was involved in, 40 years ago. You.

But again, there was nothing, not one atom, not one actual piece of information except for the bizarre event of his and his wife’s death, in which that it was almost too accidental to actually be an accident. That, combined with what I know of the Red Room, it was never discussed with Tony that there could be another.

There was no reason to bother James with this knowledge, this lack of knowledge, for fear that even the idea of it could tear him apart, and if it was wrong, we were liable to break him in ways that could not be fixed. Maybe Tony and I are at such a fault as James, by keeping this knowledge from him until last week. We all do things we hate to protect those we love, and I take responsibility for the fault. I am not sure I would choose differently, given the same choice. Because it was never actually knowledge, nothing evident enough that it would be worth compromising him like that.

He never, I don’t think he ever doubted it ended with him, their greatest failure, possibly, simply, because he didn’t want it to exist. That is what he struggled with, those days you did not enjoy, the idea that someone else went through what he did, that someone could cause as much damage, to him, and his life. And I too, wanted him to be right.

The first came last week, and I whilst I prayed, and I never pray as my faith is in myself, that it was only the one. I could not afford any more mistakes, like I believed there was not even one. Clint was in Europe when he became uneasy only hours after we understood you had been found, James and I had not yet reached the site. After tracking a lead across Asia, it made me aware, more than aware, it confirmed another Winter Soldier. On his way to America. The Soldier was stopped by me, only before Washington. It was not easy, and I required all the help that was offered, and there were many consequences, but know it was all by people who believed in their cause.

Since then, I have taken no chances in the infinite supply of Soldiers, barely an inch closer, which brings us to now. 

This new version of Soldier, as little as I have found, are more compliant, more effective than James ever was or could be, because it has come to my attention that they are willing subjects. Even with the mindwipes, the memory control, the ownership, if those fail, the natural state they would revert back to is still a completely loyal member of Hydra, which is where the issue lied with James. In truth, it makes it easier for my conscious, although it may appear that I do not have one. The difference, the reason I am able to take down them and not James, is that for all that I am aware, they signed up for this. If this is your choice, then you must bear the consequences. James bears his own consequences for something he did not choose.

With the way we were bested today, all of us, yet I was able to overcome the first Soldier, I now have fears that it was a test for him, perhaps he was not yet fully developed or trained, that collecting you I'm Washington was the final obstacle. I have no doubt that the one we met today has been in their service much longer, for him rivalling James as long as he did is impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

I hypothesise, as may Tony, that they are now looking to recruit you. Possibly for various reasons. The first is that however they obtained a new serum, they have now run out, unable to produce their own without a mind like Zola. You are possibly a viable vessel, a source, and they are aware that James’s serum is difficult to replicate, and requires steps which they are not patient or genius enough to take.

The second, is that perhaps they have run out of applicants, particularly now that I have killed one. They will do to you what they did to James, and will no longer do to James, for in their eyes, he is broken. There is a high chance of malfunction, as there is even now he has overcome their conditioning. But you, a super soldier, able to survive cryostasis, and though loyal to your own cause, there is now leverage in James, to use against you even in a kill order. Perhaps they viewed the emotional turmoil in James as an explicit factor in his success as a Winter Soldier, and look to recreate, but I will not give them long enough to explain when we find them.

And lastly, it may all just be a big fuck you to James. I have no doubt Hydra appreciated his efforts in their service, which makes the loss greater, and the acts he has committed against them since, unforgiveable. They know that there is nothing worse they can do to him, then to do it to you.

I lied to you Steve, because he asked me. He did not want this part of the world to touch you, this part that is difficult to accept that this is who he is, but in some ways he accepts it too wholly and allows nothing else. I hope, one day after you know, that you can help him find the balance he needs and someday lacks. Until then, I shall continue myself. But it frustrates him, with me, because I know more than he does about his own life, what was done to him. It is important for you to know the truth today, but another truth is that if I had said anything before, I feared I would never be able to stop.

But knowledge is essential in healing. If you have any questions, ask me here while you can, because James may not give you answers. He will not want to, and for some of the memories, he cannot.”

Steve doesn’t speak, not the whole time she talks, not as she waits for questions that don't come. Not as he walks out, not even when as he’s already at the elevators and she adds softly, “They owned him in ways we will never comprehend, and ways he will never forget, even if he doesn’t remember. Now, it is James’s greatest fear that this will happen to you.”

There’s nothing he can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, y'all wanted Steve to learn the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stevie, won’t ya step down from there?”
> 
> Steve finally turns, ignoring how his feet wobble under him, legs still uneasy and is shaken slightly from his reveries by how petrified Bucky looks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for talks of the plane crash (drowning in my story), emotional distress, self harmful actions and a misconstrued reaction that is interpreted as suicide attempt

Steve had never been a fan of rollercoasters.

The idea that a quarter to an indifferent ride attendant could seat him in a metal machine, a temporary veil between life and death, the conductor of his feelings, forcing a scream out of him at the only time not of his choosing? Well, that just compounded with the knowledge that he had lead of so little in his life, and even when he was well enough, so far from a bed or a recent illness, he wasn't about to offer this up as well and call it fun. He’s sure he might have enjoyed it more after the serum, he never shirked from jumping from heights or embracing fear or ecstasy, but that was for obvious reasons - he was Captain of himself, finally. He was more than Captain, he was Major, Colonel and General, and all of the in-betweens of all his own body, mind and spirit. 

But still, back then, he’d obliged, relenting, because Bucky had always wanted, always enjoyed it, and Steve had nothing, he only had Bucky. So he knows the fear, the speed of the inevitable that a lifetime of seconds later comes to a halting stop, a slight peak of euphoria wrapped in hysteria, the pure whiplash both in his body and his emotions when it ended, and the horrible churning in his stomach all throughout it. The only thing that got him through it all, from the moment of suggestion, to after the retch at the end, was Bucky’s absolute delight, a laugh that kept his voice, his face and his heart young forever.

And he feels all that now, in it’s entirety, without the promise of Bucky’s jubilation at the end.

Because he’s already at the end, the jarring stop, and what he sees in Bucky's forever is not that.

Steve had almost done well to live up to his own idea that he could handle it better in his new physical and mental state. He waited in line for two weeks now, apprehensive of the unknown the whole while but still comforted somewhat by Bucky at his side. He payed his fare to the Winter Soldier, then listened dutifully to Natasha, role of ride attendant, droning dully on about the safety instructions. While he listened, he focused on her words, memorising every detail as if he’d be tested or his life depended on it, the latter for sure, and then suddenly, he's close to vomiting himself inside out.

Somehow, he’d missed the actual ride, and skipped to the aftermath, and it's as bad as ever.

No. It's worse.

But the ride is still coming, he can sense it, more than that, he can feel it. He’s already strapped in, metal tight over his knees and chest, unable to escape, no one to hold his hand or rub his back while his existence expels as fully as a purge, or to remind him that this is only fleeting, half a minute most, not a lifetime. There’s no one, absolutely no one, to assure him it’s okay, to laugh, that it’s only a hoax, a dream, a goddam bedtime story, that this sort of, sort of, thing, couldn’t exist.

No one.

Except-

“May I assist you in anyway, Captain Rogers?”

The voice is back, the one that talked, god, not an hour ago, in this same elevator. There's an aeon between now and then, even further from the Barneses, an eternity from waking at S.H.I.E.L.D and a never-ending black landscape between his own two weeks ago. Maybe it is his consciousness. He’s finally lost it, of all the weird and wacky things that have happened to him, a quick trip to the future has done just the trick, making his mind leak out into the open. 

The truth is, in all honesty, because that’s where they’re at, honesty and all truths, he doesn’t care if his mind has finally failed. He'll just add it to the ever growing list.

“Is there anywhere I can go to be alone,” Steve answers out loud anyway with the only words he can think of, because the voice, his voice, left a pause in the air suggesting it's waiting on him. 

“If I could direct you to Mr Barnes’s quarters? He appears to be waiting for you.”

No, he, Bucky-

No.

Why would he suggest that?

“I’d rather,” it’s a struggle, “not, just, somewhere quiet, please,” the words are an effort, fighting their way out of his mouth with a strength he certainly does not have right now, pushing against rising bile and remnents of Becca’s scones.

So, although he told Bucky differently in the car, and isn’t quite sure what he believes in anymore, not a God, not Bucky, not himself, he prays to anyone listening and anything that exists for the next answer to be better.

It is.

“Many areas accessible to you currently have foot traffic of some sort or another. The roof currently seems to be unoccupied and least likely to be disturbed, Captain Rogers.”

“It’s Steve,” he grits out, somewhat relieved, but angered. That name, he doesn’t want it, and all it’s caused. There’s a moment of decision, if he’s all he has in this moment, to be a semblance of nice. “If you wouldn’t mind. And the roof would be great.”

No, the kind doesn’t help. Steve doesn’t need it – Bucky needs kindness, Natasha said. All that the world possesses, more, even. Perhaps the rest they may have sourced from the open skies of heaven itself in the Valkyrie, had Steve not also been the reason that is also gone.

“Certainly, Steve. I can take the elevator as far up as it goes, then it is just a short walk to an unoccupied service area. I do suggest keeping it the maintenance door open as my services do not extend outside to that area, should you require any while you’re up there.”

Steve stops paying full attention, he barely has the energy to stand right now, let alone keep up a conversation with his internal monologue. He stares resolutely ahead, not looking, not seeing, not hearing, just existing, like he had in the ice. He tries desperately not to think of Bucky in his state, though near impossible, but the name hits harder and harder each time he hears it, jostling the broken bomb in his chest, shards ripping at human skin.

The voice, his, nudges him, once, twice, that their journey is complete, but it’s wrong, because hasn’t it only just begun? The elevator took him high, and higher, not the lift hill on Gravity Pleasure Road but the Cyclone, and he knows what’s next to be the inevitable swoop, the plunge, the fear. He can’t even scream, because he has no air now, just like he hadn't for years. He can’t, not yet, he can’t let this happen, not here.

Steve stumbles out of the elevator, legs threatening to give way each step, then come the actual steps. They rise up, mountainous, leering that they will defeat him easier than they would have 90 pounds and 80 years ago, but he’s nothing if not determined. Obstinate, he’s been called, Bucky, Bucky-

No.

“Would you like me to alert anyone of your whereabouts, Steve? You appear to be becoming distressed.” 

The voice has followed him, of course it has, it's in his head. But it said it wouldn't outside, up the stairs. That's all he needs, is to get up the steps. And respond.

He is slightly panicked, but only at the words, because he’s not distressed. He’s not, he’s keeping it together very well, thank you very much, even though the metal vice is still tight, the peak looming, but he’s not screaming, not yet, because he can’t. If he says that, insists he is okay, though, he'll for sure lose this battle he decides to wage against stubborn Steve Rogers, who apparently thinks he is not okay.

But maybe he deserves to lose, to keep losing. Until everything he has, absolutely everything, is gone.

Which is just about now. 

“No, I just need a minute of air,” he replies, his voice steady. “Two, if you would. Please,” he pleads the word quietly, in hopes that his consciousness can recognise its meaning.

“Of course, Steve.” There’s a small sympathy in the tone, and he curses for wishing a moment of kindness on himself before, because it’s now stuck. He should not, would not, be kind to himself after all that he heard from Natasha.

He’d seen the Tower from a distance, not really caring, mind busy with other things and nothing at all as they drove in. He expected a helicopter landing sight maybe, or now that he knows Tony is a flying man a launch point for him, but the elevator doesn’t take him there. No, it takes him to the actual roof, the very utmost point of the Tower, which only ends to be a few feet wide, barely longer. Whilst he listened to Natasha, he only half took in what he himself said about the roof, something about service, or maintenance.

The rollercoaster is broken, but he already knew that.

It has been in the wrong order so far, for one.

And it’s rattling now, threatening, nuts and bolts coming lose as it approaches the peak. There’s nothing here to fix it, nothing at all to help him in this maintenance bay, the area too small. But Steve doesn’t care, it’s fine, he doesn’t need space to fix this. What he needs is-

Space.

And now he’s got it, he’s not crowded by hidden truths, or the future, it’s just him and the infinite Manhattan skyline. He can’t see Coney Island from here, and with that, all idea of rollercoaster is banished. Those, that, belongs in a different part of his life. A part he’ll never get back, because it was replaced by-, _he_ replaced it with-

Dying.

It was said he drowned, but Steve didn’t believe it, never once thought it could be true. He crashed a plane into solid landscape, hard enough all the bones in his body should have snapped through the skin. He lay down, and accepted it all, accepted as the slow rise of water first seeped over his toes, his stomach, his head, so cold it was a raging fire. He clenched his teeth hard enough a few of them cracked, the pain welcome while holding his mouth firmly shut, what did any of this matter in death. He never bothered to take one last breath as the water levelled his mouth, waiting for the unconsciousness he thought would take minutes, but held him for hours, his chest all the while a pressure chamber. He closed his eyes, only to see the white white white that would take him as it took, as it took-

All of that, it didn’t feel at all, and it certainly didn’t feel like drowning.

No, with the immeasurable amount of air available to him, drowning feels like this.

It feels the first time he saw Bucky on the cold, cool, heatless table, pale as if he was already dead and shivering like he’d never rid the cold. And he didn’t, because after Steve wrangled him out, he pushed him into hot, blazing, heat-filled explosions and fire fights and burning men, all to strap him back down into a cold, cool, heatless capsule, for no one knows how long, not even its victim.

It feels like tinkling laughter and smile lines that were snuffed out, so so easily, by someone, an enemy who was much closer than anyone could imagine. Laughter that was likely replaced by screams, and smile lines smoothed flat into a blank mask, a face of an unwilling assassin, a dead man, a nobody, a weapon.

It feels like _not_ _knowing_ what it would feel like, of how exactly cruel Hydra or Russians could be, what they could do that would leave impossible scars. _Not realising_ how long 23 years is, or 66. _Not understanding_ what it would be like to have his mind taken, again and again and again and again and again and never enough agains. _Never having learnt_ what it would be like to wake up in the cold, and alone. Alone.

It feels like an awful, excruciating pressure on his chest, pushing hard against the inside pressure from his broken heart bomb. A pressure where Steve can see the oxygen, can taste it, but just can’t get to it, like he’s buried under the mountain of dirt he and Bucky should rightly be by now, that’s getting harder and harder to crawl out from under.

Because he can’t.

If he wanted to, it needed to be done 66 years ago.

And he did do something, 66 years ago. He put himself in a grave, rather than everything he should have done to dig Bucky out.

The drowning gets worse, if possible, impossible, when he understands that just like the schoolyard and the alleyway and the parking lot fights, he didn’t help anybody, he only made it worse. He didn’t save _anybody_. Not Bucky, not America – though he’d trade America for Bucky any day. Not even that, the world, Steve had done nothing good to contribute it, just catapult it into further dismay. 

He was meant to be good, he was meant to be _great_ , this new birth of Captain America to save the world, but he’d only caused it more damage.

So unlike a roller coaster, and more like a bombing, he lets the truth rain fire down on him, what he knows without absolute question, that if Steve hadn’t crashed the plane, hadn’t given up so easy, too easy, and gone to find Bucky’s body like the Commandos had talked about amidst their own mourning, he could have, he _would have_ , found him, far before any of, any of- there’s no words, had a chance to happen.

The bomb in his chest tears out of him, fire and ice, tiny fragments of slivered muscle large enough to cut from head to toe, that makes him want to scream and whisper and sob and laugh, all at the same time. If Steve had a thought to look down, he’d be surprised to see his chest remained smooth skin, that the sight wouldn’t be cavity, all skin torn apart bloody to expose the nothing left of his heart to vultures and worms.

He’s been punched, kicked, shaken rheumatic fever, experimented on, shrapnelled, lost his mother, his best friend, and crashed a plane, but this, this is the worst thing Steve has ever experienced. It’s too much, so much more than everything he felt on the stairs that night, watching Bucky stand guard against Hydra, not knowing why they were so feared. Or, now he’s being honest, what he felt, after the train, when he just, he just, _didn't_. This time, he doesn’t get to float away, to avoid it, to let him hollow up until an opportunity arises to make good of it. He’s stuck, weighted in his own big body, more surface area to feel the pain, to let gravity pull him down, stuck in the future, with no way back. No way to fix, to help, to heal.

Here comes the rush, the swoop, the stomach drop and heart clench, though there’s nothing left of his heart to clench, of a rollercoaster he tried to leave in the past where it belongs, to not think about, when it sinks in _what_ Steve is _really_ responsible for.

Death.

Deaths.

Plural. Deaths, his own, and of everyone between 1945, or whenever it really started, and 1968, and all of those affected in the aftermath.

 _Bucky’s_.

With no transition, he’s on the floor, he knows how, his legs gave way, sunk, collapsed, they’d done well to get him even so far. Finally unable to hold the crushing weight of his super serumed body and crushing guilt, or maybe they were blown off him with the explosion, now there’s barely his own hands and knees holding him up as he audibly gasps for air that should come freely in the open space. But it doesn't, it never does, it never will, and the only thing that allows a semblance of air in is a sob, sob, sob, then a involuntary shudder that forces his mouth and throat open, just enough air allowed in to repeat it again.

And again, and again, perhaps as many times as a mind-wipe.

A minute, an hour, 66 years, there’s no way to tell how long he resists falling body flat onto the concrete surface, resists the thoughts he thinks and the feelings he feels until there’s only one thing he knows to do.

He needs to dig a grave.

That’s what you do, he’s sure of it.

This is anguish, and grief. And what comes with grief is graves.

He had planned for a funeral, in the car, and he’s going to get one. Only it’s not just for him, this time, he’s going to do it properly, add Bucky in, like he wanted the other night. Together, they can escape the awful that is this world. Death, he knows, is kind, kinder than life, and Natasha _said_ Bucky needs kindness.

Steve can’t give him that in life, but this, this is something he can do.

There’s not much to work with, but he’s unable to even get off his knees to find anywhere else, no mind to think of any other place, and he can’t wait any longer. He punches at the concrete, a thought mildly that it should hurt, that the blood and skin breaking from his knuckles means something, but there’s no physical pain that could be greater than what has ripped out his chest, his lungs, blown his legs out and off from under him. He strikes it, again and again until he’s choking on flying dust and concrete chunks and his own tears.

It works, some, pounding away until it’s raw bone on rock, and he’s reached every area he can, deep as it will allow, and allows a minute to inspect his handiwork in the five-foot area. There’s not enough space up here to fit him, let alone Bucky and him, not enough rubble torn from the roof to layer over the both of them, so he.

Just.

Stops.

Another thing he’s failed at.

Steve read briefly about the book that said there are 5 stages of grief, he supposes that’s what he’s doing right now. There’s no denial, no anger, no bargaining, depression, hell, can’t feel depressed about one sole aspect of life if that’s what he’s already feeling, all the time, so he skips quickly to acceptance.

It’s done, move on, there’s nothing else.

As he pulls himself up using the small ledge, there's a shake in his legs, knocking his knees, not unlike a scare of gunfire, or too long in bed with fever, but this is neither of those things.

He doesn’t have a word for this.

But he doesn’t need one, because he’s soon distracted, and grateful, and so overwhelmed by the view that the start of his tears seems hours, lifetimes ago. The tower is, Steve is, high up, but he hadn’t known just how high until now, and since some of his thoughts, his feelings, his idea of anything have ebbed out with his sobbing, he feels empty in his acceptance. He looks at the lights of the city below, just starting themselves to accept, not death, but dusk. 

It’s so high even he has trouble seeing down below, save for the movement of cars, but he wants to know, needs to know, how the world can twinkle so beautifully, like stars but on the ground, while snuffing out all light from everyone else. From Bucky. 

It’s not even a conscious thought to try and get closer, he just does it. He steps up onto the ledge, but with frustration, that only puts him higher, some 6 and a half feet. There’s a moment of argument, that if he gets lower, closer, the Earth stars wouldn’t twinkle, he would see them for the horror they truly are, phone lights of angry conversations and street lights spotlighting garbage and crime. Because there is always horror behind beauty, the same way he was captivated by Bucky’s clean shots and focused face just before Bucky's own taking of a life.

So Steve keeps his distance, allowing it to be far away, because it is so far away. Not just in feet, but time. 

He’s mesmorised, doesn’t care of the world except this moment. There is no other moment, he thinks as he tries to recall why he is even here, how he came to be, not just this roof but at all, existing, but comes up blank. He exists only now, only to view the world, almost from the heaven he’ll never find himself in.

He makes to sit, he thinks he will be up here for a while, the lights won’t let him leave, and if a rational part of his mind, any part of his mind, had been working, it would remind him that he’s closed the door and is shamefully locked out. In need of his own rescue, when he couldn't give the same all those years ago.

As he begins to crouch, he can hear said door behind him, just another sound mixing in with the beeps and the rushing wind that accompany the Earth stars.

“Stevie?” It’s another New York noise, but not meant for Manhattan, and it makes him straighten, once again further away from his lights. Steve searches his mind, frightened a little, as he knows it should come to him easily, but doesn’t. It’s stealing his oxygen, all this thinking, heaving his shoulders, and the tears start to flow again in their fear. They don’t stop, not even when he finds what he was so desperately searching.

It’s a voice from Brooklyn, winter of 1930. Hazy, almost a smoke screen, there’s images, moving, a showreel, only it's in colour. It’s Bucky as a boy, he’d argue a teenager of just 13, when Steve moaned a little too loudly in the dark only the second time Bucky had stayed over, sweating through his sheets while Bucky kept guard on couch cushions, beside him, unable to hide the glimpse of hellfire he was going through. It didn’t say ‘Stevie’ though, it said ‘Miss Sarah?’, far away, in another room, in that same scared voice that Steve only heard Bucky use around death. But there was no death that night.

There’s so much death now.

Steve is exhausted, wrung out, his mind and body hurting as much as it did that fever, and the next, and the next. There’s no offering of a cool cloth for his forehead, or medicines that don’t work, but there’s time, he knows, all sorts of time to endure. But for once, there’s also peace. There’s no soft voice commanding he fights through the pain, no prodding and poking to ask if he’s okay, can he hear them, won’t he just hold on a little longer. There’s only the twinkling below. It hasn’t stopped, it hasn’t changed, it hasn’t offered an explanation nor asked for one, so he keeps looking at it. 

The peace ends.

“Stevie, won’t ya step down from there?”

Steve finally turns, ignoring how his feet wobble under him, legs still uneasy and is shaken slightly from his reveries by how _petrified_ Bucky looks. It _is_ the young Bucky, the one from his memories as a child, though it’s Tony who’s hiding behind him, holding his wrist tight, and not the other way around. They can see the failed graveyard Steve has, or tried to, dig. Bucky’s eyes flicker to it, like he’s scared Steve will ask him to lie down in it when he’s not actually dead, he’s _here,_ he’s _standing_ , he’s _talking_ , therefore there can’t be a grave, unless Steve buries him alive, like he was himself.

And not in water and ice.

Graves are dirt and darkness.

Tony is wearing the wrong kind of suit in any case, metal, not at all fitting for a funeral. It would likely rust to the colour it’s painted if he starts to cry half as much as Steve did before. And continues to now, specks falling, raining down on unknowing pedestrians.

Bucky won’t be crying, because he’ll be in the grave, Steve reminds himself. But Steve can continue, perhaps if there’s not enough to cover them with rubble, his tears can fill up enough to drown them, and properly, this time. And if it doesn't take him for hours, or years, like it did the first time, well Steve knows that it wouldn't be enough sentence for him.

In fact, Steve shouldn't be in that grave at all. He has a lifetime of penance ahead, and he may even pray that it is as unnaturally long as Bucky’s thus far. 

So if Steve angles Bucky right, he might just fit in the small space. But Bucky doesn’t have a face of incarceration, he has a sad face, but a sad face of decision, one that sometimes even Steve can’t win against. It’s a face of Bucky fighting tooth and metal nail to stop from entering that grave.

It's a face he's seen before, not often, but it's the only one that'll defeat him, that has ever defeated him.

Failure.

Again.

Like he lied to the voice, not his voice, in the elevator before, he looks to the graves and says, “Can’t a fella get some air?” It's not exactly a lie, he _can't_ breath. His voice sounds strange in his own ears, and there’s a moment he’s grateful for Bucky’s contest. That would not have been his finest eulogy after he tackled them into the ground, but he can’t think of anything else either, and he’d given faceless and nameless soldiers better, in Europe.

This is _Bucky._

He deserves more than Steve could ever give, and now he's rejecting death too.

There's nothing left.

“Course you can, it’s just better down a little. Too thin for you here, you know how that works, right?” Bucky says, still not moving from the door, but with a restrained tension saying he means to. He’s no longer looking at the ground, or Steve’s mangled hands, just Steve’s eyes. Now, of all times, Bucky decides to look at him. But Steve’s tongue feels too heavy to reply again, swollen in his mouth. They’re still waiting on him, and Bucky’s always been impatient, can’t sit still, can’t keep quiet, not like Steve. “Just come inside, alright? We’ll open a window, it’ll be warmer and you’ll still get all the air you need,” Bucky tries again, and Steve frowns at the logic, because it might be valid. “Come down from there, Stevie.”

His tongue, his whole mouth now is thick and full, not like cotton candy high up at Coney Island. It’s more like he’d stuffed his whole mouth full of the spun sugar and it melted into cotton balls instead, or taffy, or a pudding or black sludge or even any of the other sweets his mother never let him have as often as he’d liked.

Steve doesn't really want to leave. He wants to stay here, to watch the lights which keep shining no matter what happens around them, and try to breathe. He knows more than anything that he hasn’t breathed in a long time, not properly at least, not enough to fill his now too big lungs, lungs that actually work and can take in the air they’re meant to. But there’s something about the scare, the care, persuasion that Steve can latch on to, just slightly. Bucky’s always helped him with air, no matter what took it. Sat him up just right, carried an extra asthma cigarette just in case, rubbed the phlegm away, blew it in himself with his mouth one time Steve stopped breathing for only a moment in Austria. They always got through it.

Together.

And now, with the warm coating a of _Stevie_ enveloping it all, Steve nods, just a small bob, as the thick is now in his neck.

He feels a right idiot, would accept all synonyms Bucky is sure to give him now and the rest of eternity, for crying, for being so ridiculous in the first place. Bucky is _here_ , not dead, here as youthful as he was in 1930 but _obviously_ not going to fit in the child’s like space Steve created for them, and the self flagellation brings on a new round of tears.

Damn tears, they dry his eyes and make his eyelids heavy. They're of no use, not now, not ever. Crying doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t fix the hurt Steve caused, the death, won’t fix the things the serum didn’t, the sick sick, that makes him like the way a man looks when he’s asleep in the bed next to him or the way he speaks his name, even if his voice wavered the last three times he’s said it. 

Steve won't get this time back, he knows, this innocence that is anything but innocent. Once he leaves here he'll have to change everything, to leave so he can't cause any more pain, and he almost wants to grieve again at the magnificent sight below him. He's grown somewhat fond of the Earth stars he stumbled across, the beauty to his horror, so he takes a moment to look down and say goodbye to the lights. As his lips mouth the word, he hears a whirring from behind, a rush of air, and it seems to shock the tinkles enough to whisper back to him that _they didn't snuff out Bucky, he did_ , and it only makes him like them more. They understand.

With that, he's ready to leave. With all the grace he has when dancing, he fumbles a little as he steps down, the thick now deep in his legs, no longer shaking but still not working. No matter, because Bucky is there to catch him. Of course, because Bucky is _always_ there. Unlike Steve for him. Bucky holds on, a little too long after Steve rights himself. It soothes Steve a little even, calms him in a tranquil wave, so he pushes away, his path hard, more resolute.

Kindness should be given, but not to him.

He walks past Tony, at the door, still looking at his roof that Steve destroyed and _good_ , the longer he looks, the more he’ll understand the damage Steve did, and require unrepayable reparation.

The clumsy is still steering him when he tries to walk to the elevator, missing stairs, but again no matter, because Bucky is holding him up, by his shirt of all places, but its still too much for Steve, still helpful, and nice, and it's close enough to Bucky's own body that there are a million more ways that he could hurt Bucky from this distance, if he managed so much hurt from miles away in the Artic.

Steve pushes him away, again, hard, but his legs don’t get the message, any energy he summoned from the Earth stars fade like the last of the sunlight, and he has to slump against the wall of the elevator, staring firmly ahead, but watching the reflections in the shine of the elevator.

Steve didn’t read about confusion in the grief model.

Technically, he's no longer grieving, he'd cycled right through to acceptance and they'd forgone the graves completely so his grief is done.

But he _is_ confused.

Because Steve didn’t force Bucky into the dirt, so he’s not sure why Bucky still looks so scared, eyes tight, mouth tight, breathing tight, or why Tony looks sad, not exactly funeral and sorrow sad, a different sad, but sad nonetheless.

In the enclosed space Steve can’t help but let the feelings creep into him, to take control of him, too. Without a grief model to follow, he adds panic to his confusion, but doesn't let it show on his face, lest Bucky reach forward and try to touch it away too.

And then then of all things, Bucky’s scared leaves him when Tony does, but it’s replaced by Tony’s sad, as Steve fights when Bucky reaches for his hands, swatting and slapping silently until Bucky holds them still with a strength Steve hadn’t seen until today and now knows why

Steve doesn’t want him to take away the mess he’s made of his fists, even though it doesn’t hurt, because it’s a reminder of another failure in case he ever forgets, he’s having trouble right now with a lot of things and remembering is one, breathing another, there’s been no speaking through his stuffed mouth

And it's also the start of his life long punishment where broken knuckles wont be nearly enough but he'll accept them for now 

But Bucky gets his way, managing Steve again, _caring_ he thinks it might be called, and rids all his efforts from his hands with ointment and wrapping them with dressings and soft touch and the kindness he doesn't deserve 

No grave, funerals, no punishment, it was all for naught

Not for naught, he gets a small taste of penance when his eyes catch sight of Bucky’s sad sad face when Steve doesn’t answer about dinner, or a shower, or why won’t he respond, or the worst, because it looks the worst on Bucky, if he’s alright 

Steve wants to float away again like he did that night but he can’t because he’s trapped so trapped in his heavy body weighing down feeling all of the extra 145 pounds more so than he did the very first time  
  
but the weight is in his tongue and his head and his fingers and won’t let him move heavy with despair and guilt and heavy even to Bucky as he handles him into a sitting shower and bed clothes and pushes him down into the soft bed and into Bucky's arms and rubs his back and doesn’t let go and it feels almost right like they’ve done it before maybe a long time ago in a different place  
  
but it’s the wrong sort of right that Steve hates because it’s too kind too helpful too much goodness too much good for him more than he deserves and tries to push it away but he has no strength to fight against even his own heavy limbs let alone Bucky’s or to ignore Natasha’s bedtime story  
  
or fight the down down down into a dream like the down down down of a plane or a fall from a train but this he should welcome because he’s tired just like he should welcome Bucky’s arms and words but he doesn’t he doesn’t he just lets the sleep grab him with its unrelenting and deep claws until it shrouds him in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long 2 weeks for Stevie. Hopefully week 3 brings better tidings.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s right, the cold is back, but it’s to his bones and he knows blankets won’t help.

When Steve wakes, he’s too tight in his own body, the skin compressing his atoms down with so much force he’s worried he might do the opposite of combust - he doesn’t know what that is, but he knows this is what it _feels_ like. 

It’s not a feeling he’s had for almost two years, but one that he’s known all his life – he’d grown up feeling like someone had shoved something far too big into a small and delicate body, and that’s what caused it to fail so constantly. But thanks to Dr Erskine, in the first moments of accepting the serum, he ignored the pain, the oddity of his size and strength, because he felt so free, like this is how it was always meant to be.

Now that he’s had that taste of freedom, he knows that’s exactly what this is, Captain America squished into the frail body of Steve Rogers. This is the beginning of his punishment, and it’s fitting, because reverting to his past normal is excruciating. It’s a pain that’s starting in his centre, not his heart, but his very centre of being, radiating out towards his fingers, his head, his legs. When it reaches his toes, he can’t stay still anymore.

He runs.

He’s nowhere he knows, in the darkness, but it’s not darkness, it’s a world slowly waking and maybe he _does_ know this street, these shops. He knows that he knows. It’s Brooklyn, circa 1929, pre Bucky, and his feet are taking him towards school, but he’s not getting any closer. In fact, he’s not getting anywhere, his lungs burning at the strain on the tiny body trying and failing to scramble down long streets that apex in a distance that is too close to actually be true.

Steve can’t move like this, in this body, but the agony in his core won’t let him stop, so he sprints desperately on the spot as the sun glows gold over the buildings and the people lining the streets. Their faces clear with the light, and he falters a little at the first he recognises. It’s Becca, as young as he ever knew, the age she would be in 1929, but she shouldn’t be here. He’s not even sure she is, because she’s only watching, making no move to help, unconcerned though he knows his shoulders are heaving, his legs shaking, long past the time of needing an asthma cigarette.

But she does nothing.

When the next face lights into his eyes, it’s enough of a shock to stop his feet for half a second. Natasha, face blank but eyes ever knowledgeable, she _definitely_ shouldn’t be here, and not as young as Becca is, and not standing next to Grace, baby Grace and little Evelyn, or Betty Stewart, who does actually belong there, sticky hands and wet lips in a dare. He’s running, and the girls aren’t getting closer or further away, nor is his whole class who have joined them, they just stare, blankly, uncaring. It’s unsettling, adding to the pain in his chest, so he tries hard, as hard as he can, to run faster, away from their gaze, feeling as though he’s somehow now running backwards. He trips, stumbles more like it, but held upright by a stiff, tight, uniform. Steve already knows, but he looks down anyway, unsurprised to see the Captain America uniform, the one he set a plane down in. In this bird like body he’s swimming in it, drowning, wings flapping with wet, and they're all.

Just.

Watching. 

His lungs take a final shudder, racking through his entire body and he stumbles again, this time the ground reaches his knees, and when he pushes back up the buildings slowly disappear into the dark, a narrow tunnel of black, a vacuum of sight and sound. 

Except it’s neither vacuum, or the streets of Brooklyn, it’s a tunnel like one that a train would pass through. One that a train _is_ passing through, a shaking train he’s now standing on. Still small, still in the uniform and not holding his shield, there's a exigent whooshing to the side, his good ear and he turns in horror to see a hole wide open in the side of the train. Where Bucky is hanging off. _Again, again, again, not again._

Not over a ravine, not off a cliff, but holding on with the heavens beneath him. Steve reaches out with slim limbs and little strength, but it doesn’t matter because it’s _Bucky_ , he will give him everything and more. He reaches, longer than he should be able to, to grab Bucky’s arm, but it’s not how Steve remembers, it’s all back to front. Bucky is holding on with his right arm, to reach out his left but its _missing_. In an instant, Steve is too frozen to reach out anymore, it’s cold on the train that’s for sure, space is like ice itself, but no, it’s the sight of bone, poking through, blood, and muscle and parts of a body that Steve doesn’t even know what they could be. He jerks his hand back, the railing breaks and Bucky fall fall falls into the stars, but Steve is also falling. Not off a train, no, its down, down, but there’s a rumbling, a droning, a rattling, rattling of a- 

“ _Stevie?_ ”

The rattling is his own body, someone is, _Bucky_ is, shaking him awake.

Steve sits suddenly, faster than Bucky clearly expects or is able to react despite everything, and Steve knocks the top of his head into Bucky’s chin.

Steve gasps. He tries a sorry but it comes out a strangled noise. There’s not enough breath to try another, or anything else.

“No, I-, sorry, I don’t think I was meant to wake you, but you were-, you weren’t stopping.” It’s pleading, frantic, _scared_ , as scared as Steve feels and it sounds so out of place in the dark room in a time that’s not war and in the soft bed Steve realises he’s in.

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, still trying to suck air in. It’s not enough, he can’t get in enough, it’s like his lungs are- _frozen solid_. Which he supposes they had been, not long ago and for too long, but at least he didn’t endure 66 years of nightmares while they were. And, like before, he doesn’t wake alone. Bucky’s face is close to his, breath on his face, but there’s also Steve’s voice from his head that’s somehow outside his head, and a flash of red, hair or suit, he can’t tell. Bucky does something, perhaps he says or looks a certain way, but they all leave until all that Steve knows is the ragged sound of his own breathing.

Bucky waits, clearly for Steve to say something, but he can’t, _he can’t_ , there’s not enough air to breathe or talk or even be still awake right now. “Here, I’ll get some more blankets,” Bucky mumbles as he rolls out of the bed. Too fast, quicker then should be possible, and Steve now knows exactly why, but the knowledge doesn’t help any more than he hoped it would.

Bucky returns with a glass of water and more blankets then he even thinks are in Bucky’s house but Steve pushes them all away, he doesn’t need any more water, he’s got eyes and lungs and a river and an ocean of it. Bucky sits on the side of the bed, just watching, as Steve still sucks in air to no avail. 

There's murmuring, gently, and rubbing up and down Steve’s back, and he’s faintly aware of words, or maybe questions, but no oxygen in his lungs means nothing for his brain, so they don’t make sense more than that. For what he knows about Bucky now, they might not be in English. But Bucky promised extra air, this motion usually helped, and it does now, and a little oxygen slips through. Only enough that Steve can feel the warm trails Bucky’s hands leave, but only to his skin, not down to his heart, or what Steve is afraid is left of it.

Steve continues to tremble under the warmth, but Bucky’s relentless, almost as stubborn as he, and finally Steve manages a gulp, an entire mouthful of air. With that, although the oxygen is meant to give him energy, it seems to take it all away. He slumps back down into the bed, and can’t even find it in himself to fuss when Bucky layers the blankets on, all the way to his chin.

Bucky’s right, the cold is back, but it’s to his bones and he knows blankets won’t help.

But the pressing covers helps him focus, and eventually he makes out, “You alright, Stevie?”, but Steve still shakes, but the movement shakes his head too. 

It’s Bucky’s turn to hold him in the bed, and Steve tries to tell him in all the ways he can that it’s not helping. All thoughts of penance are thrown from his head, so close to what just happened, what he just saw. What he needs right now, an absolute desire, is to hold Bucky, not the other way around. He needs to know that he can reach for Bucky, he did, he _did,_ even if he didn’t try enough, did nothing right afterwards. Steve wants and needs that confirmation that he can hold on tight, with more strength than is possible for any normal body, but the cold is overwhelming, more than he felt when he crashed, and he can’t do anything but tremble under the crushing weight, of Bucky’s hands, and the blankets, and his own despair.

There are no words he can find, mouth too busy trying to stop his self-imposed suffocation, so he pushes instead at the hands on him. Weakly he knows, but it works, they leave, the slight warmth with them, and through the panic there’s a slight relief because he _can_ , he’s finally _free_ , to reach, to hold. When he tries, Bucky is nowhere to be found. He’s too far away, Steve’s not sure where, and the fear rises, choking off any opportunity for noise and stealing what little strength he has left, his arms, his eyes, they’re all too heavy to try, try, try too hard.

There's a steady thump of a heart, a quiet whisper of even breaths, Bucky must still be here even though Steve isn’t holding him, didn’t catch him, but that is _obvious_ , it’s what Natasha told him. The shaking returns, and continues, and eventually, after hours and days and years of the shivering, even the serum can’t hold onto consciousness, and the sleep takes him again.

Steve doesn’t dream again, not that he knows, but he wakes with a type of sick in his mouth, and an ache in his bones that he’s not sure where from. There’s pressure, a sort of heat, but it’s not from a body, and for the first time in two weeks, since his whole world turned upside down and inside out, Steve wakes up alone.

It’s so, so wrong, so unsettling, so awful, that it takes Steve a moment to take in his surroundings. He’s in a bed, large enough for him and another, but it’s just him, the mattress a sort of soft firmness that he knows he could sleep for a few more hours in his fatigue. He’s weighed down by blankets, tangling more and more as he tries to kick himself out of them, eventually ripping them away in frustration. He sits, tucking his knees close as he looks around.

It’s not a very adorned room, just a simple dresser in front of him, and to his right, a bathroom, a pile of rumpled clothes in view of the door. He ignores the bedside table with a few strewn books to look to his left, to his surprise, a complete open floor of an apartment. From the bed Steve can see straight through to a kitchen and a lounge area, slightly more decorated with a bookshelf, and as many signs of being lived in as Bucky's bare home.

Perhaps it’s Bucky’s room, designed purely for him, and some part of him already knew that, for he woke up less concerned than he should have in a strange room.

There’s a small soft noise, repeating, which is likely what woke him, and the moment he tilts his head to the noise, his conscience speaks again. "Sir? Mr Stark and Miss Romanoff are on their way up. I believe they’d like to talk to the both of you.”

He frowns a little, because the words sink in and Bucky’s not here, but as his lips part, a door slides open with a dull thump.

Bucky is here, but here is apparently not anywhere Steve would have thought to linger on in his sweep. He’s sat propped up against the front door to the apartment, much like the night he stood guard from Hydra. Only this time, Bucky’s not facing the door, waiting, but facing inwards, as if he expects Steve to be the threat. His head hangs low, hair curtaining around, but from his posture, his breathing, his lack of attention to Steve, he must be asleep.

So that’s why Steve couldn’t reach out last night.

He assumes the thump is from the motion of the door, and Bucky’s body against it, but Tony simply steps around him as though it’s a common occurrence. Natasha enters with a darkened look in Steve’s direction, as though it’s his fault, which, he supposes it is. He just watches her as she moves towards the couch and picks up a cushion, returning to Bucky’s spot by the door. Like a mother to her kitten, she grabs tight behind his neck, and though not with her teeth, the scruffing causes Bucky to go limp all the same. Enough that she can lay him down, still unconscious, until he’s curled on the ground, a better position, a _kinder_ position. A kindness, one that Natasha says he needs, and Steve would give it without, without, would give it regardless, and now on his first chance, he’s failed.

Tony just waves a hand, the other full of something, and says without preamble, “Do your thing. Don’t mind us.”

Free of the oppression of the blankets, Steve slides out of bed, not quite awake, and heads to the bathroom. It seems to take an eternity to walk the short distance as he feels an exhaustion like never before. Through the fog in his brain, he identifies his limbs are almost hungover, a weird sludge to their movements. When he enters the bathroom, this one thankfully with a door, he’s shocked into a better sense of awareness by how _still_ bruised his face is. It’s not black like it feels, more of the yellow and green of an older contusion, but enough dots of purple that it is painful looking. Painful to the touch, too, he winces as he tries. He can hear, at least, so his ear drum must have come right, but he still moves tenderly, because never, not before, has anyone actually hit him that hard, nor he hit anything that hard like he did the ground.

Well, that he stayed alive for.

Steve makes to turn on the tap, but the movement stops him quickly. In his hands, both of them, is the same meagre pain as his face, but these are covered and slightly stained yellow. Gingerly, he unwraps and inspects the both of them, twisting and turning. They’re clean but still damaged, a thin scab of new skin over bone. He can feel the strain of the new skin every time any part of them flex, and the raw bone threatens to poke through. He swallows down a rise of bile at the sight of bone, it's too close to what he saw in his dream, and focuses on where else the pain radiates from. When he tests, there are a few bones in his hands broken. No more than an annoyance, but because he needs to use the fragile bones for just about everything, it’ll take them longer to heal.

He leaves the bathroom after splashing his face, the water not cold enough to wake him completely nor wipe away the bruise, but still a semblance of starting the day. There’s no other options but to walk to the living area in his bed clothes, or the ones he’s been put in. He supposes his own, or Tony’s gift clothes, must be a tumbled mess in a crashed and flipped car, who knows how far away.

Steve gets a good look at Bucky as he heads to the lounge room where Natasha and Tony are talking, quietly, on sofas, and he’s grateful for the both of them, but largely Natasha. In just a night, the darkness of Bucky’s features has returned, the taut and the tired, and the only remedy he’s seen to work so far is sleep. It doesn’t look comfortable, but he’s seen Bucky sleep in worse places, and right now, for all the help that he is, Steve will take it over no sleep at all.

Tony gestures for Steve to sit, and he does, handed a coffee and a slim ration for his efforts. He regards it a little suspiciously, to the rolling of Tony’s eyes, but carefully peels the packet away and takes a bite. It’s cautious, but it needs not be, though an odd texture, it doesn’t taste bad, and through his exhaustion and pain, he can identify that he’s as hungry as he ever was in the Depression, or the war.

Tony explains that it’s a protein bar, one he makes himself, enough for how much Steve's body actually needs, without having to shovel mountains of food in. “It’s not a replacement, don’t you start with me, I’m not equipped to handle two of that, but it might get you through until lazybones wakes for breakfast.” Though it’s an extension of Bucky, of Bucky’s life, the thoughtful gesture squeezes Steve’s chest and the food clears his head a little. “How are you feeling?” Tony asks, low and quiet, an odd sort of concern deep in his eyes as Clint flops onto a lounge chair. Steve startles, he hadn’t even seen him come in.

“I’m fine,” he replies, but there’s a look, a look between Natasha and Tony and Clint that he doesn’t quite understand. “How are you feeling?” Steve turns instead to Natasha, who smiles warmly at him, and shrugs, as if it’s explanatory. It’s not, it’s very much not, not if she doesn’t have a serum or any other enhancements. She was shot only 12 hours ago, and yet Steve is feeling sorer for a knocked face and battered hands. 

“Did you sleep alright?” Tony tries again.

It's the tone that catches him, makes him curl in on his overly large body, as if protecting himself. “What? What’s going on?” Steve tries, but they’re all just looking at him sadly. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Tony grimaces, but softly. “Something happened.”

“I can see Bucky taught you to be annoying,” he says dryly, still not awake enough to deal with this. He takes a sip of his coffee in the weak hope that the caffeine will do something, anything, but it doesn’t.

“That he did,” Tony muses. He does something with his watch, looking to Steve on the couch, his knees drawn almost to his chest, and this time, he can hear the heat, before he feels it. This time, the motion clenches his chest so much that it hurts to swallow down the mush in his mouth, hurts so much that his eyes prickle.

“What was that?”

“Modern day technology. It’s called heat.”

“We did actually have something like that, you know. I’m not a cave man. I meant the,” Steve makes the similar twisting motion that Tony did above his wrist.

“Oh, that. Yes. An on switch, Jarvis if you will.”

That wasn't in the history books. “Jarvis?”

“Oh! Oh ho! Jarvis is, well, he’s everything.”

“It's Artificial Intelligence, Steve,” Natasha says, but gets a blank stare. “Basically no one would have a baby with Tony, so he made a program that mostly does the job.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Romanoff,” the British voice in the ceiling cuts in as Tony looks wildly at her, and she smiles.

“He’s not a-. Look, in a way that you’ll understand and isn’t the most important thing we need to talk about today, in the building, Jarvis acts as a program that, well, does everything. Tower security, lab assistant, personal assistant, whatever I, or anyone I nominate, him to be."

“James said he showed you Google, so perhaps think of it like that. Only with a somewhat type of personality,” Natasha add.

“I based him a little off my butler. And friend,” Tony explains. Steve dares to hope that Tony’s butler was normal, for lack of a better word, and not confusing, cryptic, over the top, or anything else Steve has seen so far from the people in the room. “I use him in my Iron Man suits too, you saw one yesterday, so I’ve always got someone watching my back, front and sides.”

Steve nods, taking another bite of the ration, letting it sink in. Technology was never really his strong point, so he’s not sure he should try too hard, and he thinks that something like this would take more than two weeks to catch up on. “That thing was made of iron?” He settles on instead, somewhat looking for validation that it wasn’t the devil looking for him.

“Well, no. Don’t give me that look, Star Boy. Private America doesn’t sound as good as Captain America, either. People hear something they like, and stick with it. It’s catchy, and they sell my lunch boxes next to yours, these days,” Tony replies with a shrug.

Bucky had mentioned something about that, the popularity, but he’s not exactly sure how Tony fits into it, though being a Stark, associated to Rogers, maybe that’s the one thing that may not have changed since 1945. Steve is all for learning about this new world, but where the books made sense, the words thrown at him now don't as much, and it's only making him feel more out of place and off balance.

Steve takes a small bite to save himself from answering, just as Bucky stirs with the soft sighs and shifting eyes that always come before waking. He moves slow, tentatively pushing himself upright, wincing with a different sort of sigh as he does. Even as the heat swirls around Steve, there’s a chill in his spine when he wonders if Bucky was more injured then he let on, that Steve didn’t push for because of, _well_ -. The cold spreads, pinpricks **,** numbing Steve’s fingers and toes when Bucky takes a moment to sit, his hands gripped tight, eyes down and hair falling over his face, a reminder of the sight of immediately after, well, the _incident_.

The fright is gone in less than a moment after Bucky exhales with a roll of his shoulders, and looks up, taking in the room. His eyes are bleary, but with sleep, not lack of, and he looks no more or less Bucky than usual. His face shifts from just waking to worry when he catches Steve’s eye, but Steve looks away.

The quiet of the room only makes Steve’s internal thoughts and feelings louder. He’s glad the voice from above is a Jarvis, and not his own, for he doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s thinking right now. Even if he’s not exactly sure himself, what that is. 

What he does know, is that whatever it is inside of him, is too much. It’s too much, and there’s not enough that is about Bucky, because Steve can’t feel anything for him, the horror, the sadness, over the roar of his own guilt.

Even the thought of it makes him impossibly more culpable, and nauseous, and stings his eyes again. Steve wants nothing more than to disappear into the couch, or the bathroom, even the goddam Valkyrie, but he can’t, because he can still feel Bucky’s eyes on him. He’s trapped in the gaze, piercing, like they know, they _know_ that Steve has barely given him a thought since last night.

“Would love to give you your beauty sleep, Buck, but I have a feeling this should be dealt with sooner rather than later. Not really sure why I bother with well wishes though, seeing as I give you a perfectly good bed that you don’t bother to sleep on,” Tony chides.

“Too soft,” Bucky grumbles softly, rubbing behind his neck with closed eyes, as Steve dares a quick look.

“No, it’s not.” The tone is hard, but Bucky remains unflinching. “I told you, Jarvis would-”

“Apparently not,” Bucky cuts in, a little more dangerously.

“Did you even lock the knife drawer?”

“Just leave it,” Bucky snaps, now angry, his eyes flying open and dark.

Steve inspects his knees resolutely, but in the corner of his eye he can see the movement of Tony moving towards Bucky as he stands, a tight hand on the shoulder which gets ducked away from for a reach of Bucky’s own coffee. Tony wags a finger, and scolds, “Don’t think you can get away with that here.” He hits Bucky over the head, gently, with another power bar.

“Just give me the damn coffee. I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Maybe you’re in a mood cuz you’re hungry. And tired. Tingry? Hired?” Tony jibes over Bucky’s growls.

“James,” Natasha says coolly. “You will eat the protein bar, and drink your coffee while we deliberate, and then we will eat breakfast. Don’t make this more difficult for yourself.”

Bucky slumps into the couch he’s now reached, and tears at the packaging. Tony concedes and places the coffee down within arms reach, but Bucky’s gaze is steely as he stares ahead, unwrapping slowly.

“So,” Tony starts, and Steve is grateful, to have to force his attention elsewhere. Tony brings his legs up on the coffee table and crosses them, before starting, “We started without you two, because of, well... Yeah. The one, and only thing we do know, is that they're after Steve. And willing to kill anyone who gets in their way. The rest, we can stab in the dark, and we did last night, but you’re not going to like it.”

It’s more so directed at Bucky, and Steve feels as helpless as he did yesterday during the fight, and the medical lab, an extension of how he has his whole life. It’s enough to hitch his breathing, enough that Bucky’s eyes flick over to him, but Steve continues to stare at his knees, picking at his own food in front of him. 

Bucky stays silent about Steve, but answers Tony. “Go on then,” he says after chewing for far too long, but not swallowing. “I don’t like anything about this.”

Clint makes a sympathetic noise.

“Okay, well, so we’re dealing with a nasty son of a bitch. That much is clear. And now we know for sure it’s not just one- no, keep it to yourself, Buck. You’re in no position to be ticked off by lack of information. It’s all in the open now, and we can’t afford to go in blind anymore. We need to know how exactly did Hydra get there, and how many are we dealing with?”

“One idea, one that Tony and I did not get much distance on,” Natasha follows, and Steve feels impossibly worse with each continual mention of last night. He’d spent it all sniveling and sleeping around nightmares when Natasha, shot to bits, apparently kept working. To help _him._ When all he’d done is _caused this_. He's so caught up in his own mind that he misses her talk, catching only, "perhaps Howard managed it.”

“There’s no evidence, there never was, that’s why I never said anything, alright? But Dad wasn’t the type to just let anything go. That, and he’d been sober a long time, crashing on a straight road, it- you know it never sat right, Bucky. It didn’t with you, either. So if he made it, if he made enough to share, it stands to reason that someone may have found out, and killed him to get to it. And it would have been good enough, to be better than either of you. Hence, yesterday.”

“The second theory, one that holds a little less credibility, is that maybe Hydra eventually managed to reverse engineer some sort of serum from Bucky’s, without Zola.” Though not to Steve, it's clear all of this is new information to Bucky, who looks distraught, his breathing uneven, and hasn't yet reached for his coffee. “But if they didn’t, if they, or Howard, went in blind,” Natasha continues softly, “We're looking at a third option. Something worse.”

Steve doesn’t mean it, but his reaction is wholly physical, movement enough that everyone turns to look at him. Thankfully, he doesn’t even have to attempt to gather a sentence, let alone force the words out.

“Yes, Steve. It gets worse.” Tony pulls out what looks close to an iPad, but a little different, that he’s not quite sure if it is. No matter, it looks to have a video on it, a large triangle in the middle of the screen.

“This, is Bruce Banner,” and Bucky sits a little straighter, his face growing tight. “Brilliant scientist, brilliant mind, brilliant, well, everything. Used to work for the government, but that didn’t end too well. See, for all Bucky’s misgivings up until now, I for one am grateful that he never did actually speak to the SSR afterwards, because Steve, the government of good ol’ U.S of A never stopped. They kept trying to make their own version of the serum, to cope to all the different sort of wars that were up and coming, considering your success. And yet, no matter who they used, still no one got close. Sickness, death, a lot of it all covered up and learnt upon, nothing good ever happened. Until Bruce. But Bruce’s, well, his reaction was…” Tony trails off.

“Unexpected?” Clint offers. 

“I don’t really think there is a word for it, actually,” Tony disagrees. “Not one that you’ll understand, without seeing. Technically this is classified, which is exactly why I take great pleasure in showing you. Go ahead, the big button.”

The sight before him is added to the list of things he doesn't understand in the past 24 hours, unable to even register, to accept what is happening on the screen, sure it’s no more than a surrealism take on the Disney movies they’ve been watching. When Steve looks up at the faces watching, he knows it’s not.

“Even though it went to horribly wrong, it’s the closest we’ve seen so far to getting it right. Well, up until yesterday.”

“Someone willingly did this?” Steve asks in disbelief, when he finds his words. 

“I mean, Bruce thought it was going to work. He’s incredibly clever, there was no reason to doubt it.”

“He thought, but didn’t know. That's a big risk to take.”

“No more than you.” Steve re-watches the video, and halfway through Tony speaks over the top. “He’s a good guy, gentle soul, would you believe, and the smartest person I know behind me. The only issue is that, well, he’s not exactly himself when he’s the other guy, doesn’t always have complete control of his actions, usually actions involving people and buildings, ending in hospitals.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but the whole room tenses.

“Sometimes, everyone, needs a little help,” Natasha says quietly. “And now we need his.”

“Both his brains and his brawn. He might know if anyone else was close, or what exactly we could be dealing with. It’ll be easier to find him than Hydra, with the exception of letting this Soldier find you. But believe it or not, we might get less causalities by going to him first. And if he doesn’t know per say, we expect the worst, and hopefully he’ll be willing to be on our side, to give us a strong hand or two. If we can get him, Hydra will quake in their boots so hard they’ll Morse code out all the information we want. Between us and S.H.I.E.L.D, we can take them down for good.”

Steve’s in no position or mind to make up a decision, as he realises Natasha and Tony are looking at him expectantly.

Bucky can either sense or see it. “They’ve already made up their minds. This is all just a formality for you.”

“Do you disagree?” Natasha asks.

Bucky looks crestfallen, crossed with disgruntled, as he whispers, “No.”

“Alright then, what say you, Steve?”

Bucky opens his mouth, but Natasha holds up a hand. Steve looks around at the room, though he’s still not caught up on what’s going on, he might never be if he doesn’t go, and maybe this way he can be helpful, he can help end it, to give Bucky some peace.

And then leave him alone.

Steve nods, ignoring the way Bucky’s face falls further.

“Alright. Good-o, guess that's a go then. Operation Recruit Bruce, begins at 12 hundred. Buck, I’ll give you a tune up before we go, make sure everything’s dandy. The arm,” Tony says to Steve’s confused look. “Just gotta make sure it'll only high five the right people.” Bucky’s eyes grow dark, and throws a look at Tony who stands his ground. “I’ll meet you both in the lab, I’ll just get breakfast sorted for after.”

Steve reluctantly trails after Bucky to the elevator, following lead as Bucky throws out the rest of the protein bar on the way. The doors close, and Steve, now for the second time in his entire life, feels awkward around Bucky. That, and a little claustrophobic. It makes sense, they’re both quite large men, but it’s not that. It’s the pressing weight of what’s happened, of 70 years of what’s happened, of all the emotions he’s trying not to let spill out, closing him in. Bucky looks at him, but Steve stares at the corner, not really wanting to see either the reflection or Bucky’s actual face.

He's the one so big on communication, but he can't think of a thing to say, that would convey how much, what, _anything_ that is going through his mind right now. 

“Please stay out of this,” Bucky pleads into the still air. "Just, don't come. Stay here, stay safe, Steve,” he breathes out, and Steve can hear the chewing start. 

So he’s Steve now. _Good,_ he no longer wants to be coddled, to be helped or rewarded, to be owned so solely by Bucky, but the name causes a flash of hurt to fly across his face. He shuts his face down quick, into something he thinks wouldn't be unlike the blank faces he's seen from Bucky. 

Bucky stiffens beside him at the reaction, and he knows their faces would mirror. Bucky's voice comes out again, strong, but not Bucky’s, devoid of anything that makes him Bucky, or anyone else. “I'll help you look for your own place in D.C when this is done. Or Tony will let you stay here, if you'd rather be in New York.”

And there is it.

Finally, a truth.

Bucky doesn’t want him around, in this new world. Like everything else that had been told to him since he woke, asking again and again for Steve to stay was a lie too.

He doesn’t mean for it, but it hurts, too much, and not enough at the same time.

Isn’t that what Steve wanted? To serve out his punishment alone? To stop himself from causing more harm to Bucky, easier and surer from a distance?

Bucky’s still looking at him, blank but expectant, so Steve nods, not trusting his voice.

Bucky leads them to a room, which offers a multitude of distractions for Steve. It’s far different from the medical room, looking more like it belongs to a mechanic, with tools and items Steve wouldn’t even pretend to know about strewn around. He inspects them, to distance himself from Bucky, at least pretending to be occupied, hiding his face by turning his back when he can feel the hurt surfacing from his self made dam, but as he looks closer somehow they make more sense than anything else right now. He doesn’t even notice Tony entering, not until he speaks.

"Alright, you know the drill," Tony claps, and Bucky sits on a reclining chair, his metal arm laid flat, palm up. His face is still blank, but there's a hardness to it, his eyes somehow black and not the blue they should be. Bucky shakes his head as Tony taps at the shoulder, which earns him a disappointed look and an exasperated sigh.

Had he given thought to what a tune up of a metal prosthetic meant, Steve might have assumed it to be grease and oil, exhaust fumes or perhaps a wrench. Instead, it's a series of floating pictures, of what looks like to be Bucky’s arm, from all different angles, even inside, and multiple layers. There’s also x-rayed pictures that even Steve can identify as Bucky’s torso, his spine, shoulder and brain, which bring back the nausea, though this time at least he's able to control his breathing.

“Not enough time for a crash course right now,” Tony waves his hand towards the pictures when he notices Steve's wandering gaze. “Mostly, we just worry about this part here. Left over, residual issues from when he moved a little too much as the fuckers were cutting off his arm-”

Two heads snap towards Tony.

 _'Y_ e _ah.'_

It screams in Steve brain, though the words at the time were no more than a whisper. 

_‘Yeah.’_

He’s no longer awaiting the punchline, for anyone to tell him the joke is up, but this-

_‘Yeah.'_

This, like everything else he learnt yesterday, hits harder than the Winter Soldier’s fist. Than the plane.

_‘Yeah.’_

They cut off his arm.

_‘Yeah, it hurt.’_

And Bucky was awake.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can talk. Bucky," even the name is difficult in his mouth, dry and razor sharp to swallow, "Can talk. And he did. Asked me to go. He doesn't want me here."

He can’t stop the breath that comes hard, sees Bucky stiffen in his chair, hands clenched so tight there's a fleeting fear on top of the crushing mountain of everything else Steve feels that the metal might snap. Tony looks between them both, and all good grace, half shrugs apologetically.

Steve curls his own hands into fists to stop the trembling, but it does nothing more than strain his already stressed bones. With another heavy breath and a sharp turn on his heel, he finds himself in the elevator, his back turned to the room he was just in. Though he doesn’t ask for the roof this time, doesn’t speak at all, he gets taken to Bucky's room all the same.

It's harder to drag his leaden body to the bathroom than this morning but he manages, barely making it to the sink in time before his stomach constricts violently. Nothing comes up, comes out, there's nothing in there, not enough coffee or protein bar, but he can't stop the motion of his stomach, the painful and rhythmic squeezing that no doubt hurts barely a fraction of what _having your arm cut off_ would feel like.

Steve dry heaves, and heaves, and _heaves_ , for far longer than he'd like, but if he's all for self flagellation, it's not long enough. As the retching begins to fade, he scrambles for the feeling, the slight burn, but it leaves him, and leaves him shaking on the floor, with only the truth.

Truth is all he wanted for so long, and all of it, but now, he's not so sure.

He’s not sure he can actually handle it.

This is twice now he's be defeated with just words. Never in his life, not with his mother, not even staring down Colonel Phillips in a tent, his first time on the front lines. Fighting to swim to the top of all the truth he learnt yesterday, and the small amount this morning, comes another truth, but this time, it’s Steve’s own.

He’d only ever asked for three things in his life; his health, his mother to live a life she deserved, and Bucky. His punishments for his greed started with his own health, striking him down time and time again but he'd held on long enough to put his faith in a scientist instead of a God. His mother, he'd not been as fortunate, there was no Dr Erskine for her, and she was taken 50 years before her time and far to early into Steve's own living. But asking to be happy in life with his best friend, to let himself love? Steve has always accepted that he would be turned away from the pearly gates, would willingly face whatever fire Hell would flame onto him for his Earth old sin. Because it could be no worse than living in a world where he would never be around Bucky, could never freely love him, let Bucky be as loved as much Steve could give.

He got neither, not a life with Bucky, or an afterlife without. 

What he got, was a a second chance, even though he never asked for it, in a new world where this sort of love could possibly be okay, where Bucky might even be open to the idea of accepting, not reciprocating, but still accepting.

But at far too great a cost.

And now, it doesn’t matter what Steve tries to inflict on himself, or even if he finds himself in the fiery depths of hell, because nothing will ever be worse, will ever hurt him more than what has already happened, what can’t be undone.

It's a knowledge he can't ignore, a second time, that even now, in this new body and new age, all he does is fail. He can't even get self repentance right. It doesn't render him completely incapacitated like yesterday, but even partially debilitated he can't bring himself to stand up on the tiles, to stop a fresh set of tears, to breath through an awful suffocation.

There's no knowing how much time passes on the cool floor in the artificial light, but eventually he calms, if only so slightly, enough to realise that he's no longer alone in the apartment. And most likely, hasn't been for a while.

He doesn't want to remain here, weeping and sick to his stomach, to his very being, he doesn't want to be made to go to Bruce, wherever and whatever he is, doesn't want more fighting, or war, or pain. What Steve wants, is to go _home_. The home he'd thought he might get even in this new New York, because this alien city had Becca, and Brooklyn, and even a version of Bucky.

There's no way for that to happen, no way to turn back time, no doubt Tony's tried, and failed.

In fact, there never was a way, because his home, he knows, is with Bucky. He should have known that from the start, from when Bucky all but moved in at age 13, and actually moved in at 19, and for sure should have sunk in when the displacement of war, of Europe, never felt _wrong_ because Bucky just made it all _right_. It not right now, because neither of them have let it be.

So he stands on legs stronger than they have any right to be, and splashes his face without reward. Glad that the most of his nausea has passed, Steve again ignores the cracking of his hands. He doesn't bother with a preparatory breath, there's no air anyway, and opens the door to meet his maker in this century, to find judgement for all his reactions so far, from whomever the new world has chosen for him.

It's-

Natasha.

Whatever his face reads, whatever she heard of him in the bathroom, it prompts her to say, “You must understand why we can’t leave you to be alone right now.”

“I don't, I- No.” 

She studies him for a minute, but mustn't spot a lie, because there isn't one. “I am not the best for that part of the conversation. It's more delicate, so I will leave it for James. But as I said before, everyone needs a little help sometimes. So I am still offering mine to you." He waits, he'll take any morsel she's offering. "You are behaving like an idiot.”

“Excuse me?” Through the desperation, the bafflement, his tone is sharp, almost a snap, then pulls himself short. Steve’s never, his mother would be so disappointed, he’s never spoken to a woman with so much disrespect before. It bounces off Natasha, in fact her face softens, but he still feels sick in himself for the action. 

“Granted, I can sympathise that this is an overwhelming situation for you. But do you really think leaving James, moving away, will be the best course of action, given all that you now know?”

Steve shuts his eyes and heaves out a breath to stop himself from disrespecting her again. Once, can be placed on a mood or involuntary response, twice suggests his character. When he’s calmed enough, he asks dryly, he allows himself that, “Am I to be monitored, managed, like him, and apparently all of his conversations?”

She tilts her head to one side. “I trust very few people with my life, and even less with James’. I would like to trust you Steve, but I don’t. I do expect you not to take that personally. However, until I do, I will continue my observations. When I say I’m not sure what reverts him to a state of _Soldat_ , I mean it. But if any of us were not concerned what these events could trigger, then we would deserve to have our stupidity snuffed out by him. And we now know that you are incapable of holding your own, so these safeguards are for the both of you.”

“I thought it only happened when he was asleep,” Steve says slowly, he's not sure if she ever actually said that, or it was just a conclusion his own mind had come to.

“And I thought the Winter Soldier was a ghost story.” Her smile is tight, both lips and the skin around it. “Not only is there one in James, but now another, and potentially more than just the one. There is very little I place my faith in right now.” She gives him an opportunity to speak, though there's nothing he can think to say in return. “But that is not all. Even without the possibility of that reaction, I care for him. And I would like to see him well, and happy. Which apparently reduces my skill set to that of school teacher to a pair of juveniles, to teach them how to communicate. Properly.”

"I can talk. Bucky," even the name is difficult in his mouth, dry and razor sharp to swallow, "Can talk. And he did. Asked me to go. He doesn't want me here," Steve says, deliberately failing to point out that it's what he had considered, begun to plan in his fugue state last night, and this morning.

But of course she knows.

“You two are alike, in most respects. So because I know him, and why he offered that suggestion, I know why you accepted it. I think you feel guilt, that the Winter Soldier is somehow your fault.” Steve breathes heavy at the comment, up into his shoulders as if that would allow extra space for air to fill, but doesn’t reply. “You are selfish in your reaction. It’s only natural. It’s human, and valid. But it is not helpful to James right now, which is what I assume you wish to be, yes?”

"What's helpful to him is me leaving. Because he wants me to. And that way I can't make it worse," he allows, as there's no point lying to her.

"James," she continues over him, as if he hadn't spoken, "Is no less incorrect in his reaction. He also feels immense guilt for acting as the Winter Soldier. To work for Hydra, to be Hydra, he thinks that you could never accept it, could never forgive him. Enough so, that you would turn yourself away completely. The pain of you being alive, and wanting not to be near him, would be worse than the pain of what Hydra put him through. And that is why he lied to you, and allowed you the option before you yourself could bring it up. His own methods were selfish, but yes, once again valid, and no more than human. Which, were it not this awful consequence, I would be proud, for thinking him more than an object, aware of his feelings, and choosing himself.”

He's shocked into silence for a moment. He, it-, that wasn't what he was expecting. Natasha, Steve didn't tell her like he told Peggy, but he had no doubt she knew anyway, she _knows_ , because she was there for a shared bed, she can read his mind regardless what Bucky says. And yet, it's not what she chooses to bring up. She's not exactly been kind, well, maybe in her own way, but he has no doubt she hasn't lied to him about anything, thus far, anything important, so she wouldn't lie about this. His mind ticks, Steve thought it was because of _him_ , Bucky's reaction of the Greenwich Village, asking him to move out, it's-. Confusing. He wets his mouth with his own saliva before replying with a simple, “I don't understand.”

"Which part?"

"The," all of it, but not sure he wants to understand any of it, he's barely coping with the disgust he feels with the little he knows, so he focuses on the part that specifically involves him, at least a starting point, "The guilt."

“He was the perfect soldier, the creature, the weapon, that Hydra created him to be. You understand the devastating effects of any sort of weapon Steve. And he was well used. The things he did- they were terrible. Things that, even in me, they barely sit right, can invoke nightmares after all I've seen. When you propose them to someone with morals, integrity, a soul, well, the response is quite profound.”

“That’s-, that's not right.”

“I think you’ll find it is,” Natasha says firmly, but somehow still light, and curious, simply watching him.

“But it is. He didn’t do them. He was made to do them. You said, he didn't have a choice, it wasn't him, in his own mind, doing them in the first place.”

She tilts her head at him, and he's enrage to see she appears to be slightly amused. “But he still did them.”

“He didn’t,” Steve insists, not even bothering to dampen his annoyance. “It was the Winter Soldier. Not Bucky.”

Her amusement turns dry. “What a compelling argument, Steve. Perhaps we should have tried that reasoning sometime during the past 40 years." 

Steve can do nothing but gape.

"I assure you this is not a joke, my humour is better than that,” she says as he feels his face morph from incredulous to horrified. “He gets too lost in his past sometimes to see otherwise. Maybe you will finally get through, because you are further in the past than the days he regrets, or simply because you are who you are, you may be able to override it. I doubt you will be able to do that from afar, if you leave.”

"I-,"

"You want to help him?" Steve nods. "Then stay. There is no other way. Perhaps talk to him. Like I talk to you now. And who know, maybe he will even talk back. Undoubtedly he'll have enough to say, considering how long he's muzzled himself for."

He's still stuck in his state of shock, for which she gives him time to sit in.

"I'd rather you do it sooner rather than later," Natasha says. "I don't like the idea of him spending a moment longer undeservedly blaming himself. It's already been a decade more than I have even been alive."

"This whole time?" Steve whispers, just to be sure.

She nods in confirmation. "They say time heals all, and combined with his enhancements, it should not even be a consideration at all in our conversation today. But it has also been a long time for the feelings to manifest, to fester, to turn into something much more than what they started. And I do wonder," she says softly, "if you feel more deeply than us, if the serum affects that as well.”

“Oh my god," Steve groans into his hands. "No, well, I don’t think it’s like that for me. My emotions weren’t heightened, just everything else. And that’s just, that sounds like Bucky. He's always cared, so much, done everything to protect the people he cares about. But he's got this, this, when he gets it in his head he's right, he won't listen to anything else. The amounts of times growing up I could throttle him for his obstinance. And now, it seems, stupidity.” 

“Many have tried, Steve Rogers. It will be interesting to see how you go. I will start a betting pool. In any case, you may have to get behind a long line of people, myself included, who wish to chastise him.” Natasha smiles, and it’s warmer than Steve has ever seen, and he thinks, perhaps, maybe, it is a real smile. She stands, and holds out a hand. “Now come, breakfast time. And then perhaps you will set James straight and I will win a large sum of money, with Tony involved.”

His abdomen churns at the thought of food, still clenching from his retching before and he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

The smile is gone in an instant, her look so sharp it quells even his stomach. “Don’t think we are not well versed in holding down a super soldier and forcing them to eat. You will upset your host greatly if you refuse his meals, will only add to James’ pain and I will be very disappointed in you. Clint, however, will leave your autonomy alone, if you would prefer to sit next to him. Not that distance will deter us,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Steve follows her down to another level, Tony’s personal rooms, she explains, and he sits at a table overflowing with all sorts of breakfast items. More than Steve can identify, and on any other day he'd be elated at the offerings.

Toast, he might manage, but not the six slices Natasha piles on to his plate, but under her withering gaze he begins to nibble. He's only halfway through when Tony and Bucky enter, Tony all but dragging Bucky by his shirt, his hair, anywhere that Bucky struggles to duck away from him, and plonks him in the empty seat next to Steve. Steve expects nothing less when Bucky starts shaking his head at the full table of options, glaring darker than Steve's ever seen at Natasha and Tony. Steve only stands it for a few seconds before he pushes his own full plate towards Bucky, and quietly pleads, “Please.” After a beat, Bucky relents, it’s not much, but with half a power bar, it might combine to more than Steve’s ever seen. Clint just rolls his eyes, but Tony and Natasha look quietly mollified, though Steve can't find it in himself to be appeased.

Through the quiet breakfast, Steve can feel for certain that the cold is back.

A cold, he thinks for Bucky, that has been here for as long as Steve's, and will take more than two weeks, much more, to warm.

But Steve needs to start, to try. He knows Bucky can thaw him completely, he only hopes the same in return, so he puts his foot next to Bucky's under the table and nudges, ever so softly with his knee, and in a useless motion, holds his breath as he inspects the peanut butter Clint rolled towards him. Bucky doesn't say anything, doesn't react but nudges Steve's knee with his own, and now there's a satisfaction, a relief.

He can do this. Steve can right him and Bucky, and in the process, hopefully the both of them separately.

“Don’t run away again,” Tony says as he stands, finishing the last of his coffee. “Got something for you, Stevie-boy.”

His face is displeased, both at leaving Bucky and at the use of a nickname, surely Bucky told them, surely they know, but he follows after an approving nod from Natasha. Tony takes Steve to the room from before, but continues walking further into the lab, into another room until they're standing in what’s somewhere between a closet and a display room, where there’s a series of metal men standing around.

Steve eyes them a little cautiously, but Tony shakes his head. “Not exactly. You’d be too tall, and in any case, I don’t think Bucky’s heart would take it with all the coffee he runs himself on. Nah, this one is yours,” he says, gesturing to a standing case that slides open.

Steve's uniform, looking more glorious than he knows, shiny and free of dirt and blood.

And not torn and sopping wet and ice particles dripping off it.

“Not actually the same one, of course, yours disintegrated around the melting and what not, but I’d be inclined to say it’s slightly better.”

Steve approaches it cautiously, and he doesn’t think Tony realises it’s not shock on his face, but horror. He reaches out, but stops himself, and can't stop the small clenching of his head.

“Yup,” Tony muses, popping the ‘p’ like a child and walking forward to join him. “Thought so. I'm not offended, lucky I've always got a backup plan. Knew one day, maybe you’d like something a little less…”

“Ostentatious?” Steve manages. The word seems fitting for Tony, in any sense.

“Yeah, alright, bunch of geezers,” Tony mumbles, and opens another case.

Steve’s immediate reaction is, as much as if can be at the beginning of what will lead to a fight, relief. There’s no white or red, nothing to call out the America in the Captain. It’s a deep navy, with a dark brown leather utility belt, shield strapping, gloves and boots. They’re not leather, he learns as Tony explains, but Nomex and Kevlar. Steve doesn’t know what the threads are, but only cares that according to it's designer, they can help with bullets and fire. And that it’s the same preference as Bucky, so Bucky must trust it.

Tony turns to offer privacy and Steve slides it on slowly, ignoring the crawling in his skin that is screaming to take it off. He’s not sure what he wants to do with this life yet, but actually seeing the gear, after fighting someone stronger than anything he’s ever seen, knowing what’s at stake, for all of them, for the first time in his life he’s less than inclined to pursue a fight.

Somewhat unfortunately, it fits, far more comfortable than the one Howard made him, which he mentions just to see Tony's eyes blaze a little. It’s light, flexible but Steve has confidence in the integrity, and for all he doesn’t want to, he could spend a year in it as a Howling Commando if need be. He hopes it will be no longer than this day, and then he can test how fire proof it actually is by setting a match to it. 

“There’s only so much it can actually hold against, so just, don’t do anything incredibly stupid, which according to Bucky is asking a lot.” Steve makes to scowl, but Tony just shakes his head. “I mean it. This guy, well, if Bucky can’t even get a mark on him, then I’m the first to admit that I’m scared about all this.”

Tony walks around Steve, mostly interested in the suit, pulling, tugging, admiring his work but not making adjustments.

“I am curious about one thing,” Tony starts, but stops short, so Steve tips his head in encouragement. “Clint is too, he’s just too polite to ask. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I saw you get taken down pretty quickly. I know Bucky’s worried by it too, because it means you’ll get hurt easier, but me, I’m mostly wondering if it means he’s stronger than we're ready for, or if maybe 70 years in stasis started to degrade your serum, that it spent itself keeping you alive while constantly drowning. And _that_ , now that worries me.”

Steve can’t stop they physicality of his reaction. Head ducked, face flushed, he thinks of a way to answer that’s not embarrassing, and can’t find one.

“What’s that for?”

“I, uh. It might be neither. I've actually never had that much time to fight. Not like that.”

Tony looks flummoxed. “But, the stories, what Bucky’s said. You’re _Captain America._ ”

“I mean, the enhanced strength, and speed, and metabolism, it gives me a better baseline, I guess. But a lot of what the Commandos did was against Nazis, normal humans, though their minds were screwed. Mostly we were stealthy until we had to blow something up. I guess it seemed more impressive than it was simply because I could take down so many of them, and quickly. There were a few tanks, sure, the whole thing with the plane, but yeah, the only other, not human, I’ve ever come up against was Johann Schmidt. Even that, that was hard, and who knows how it would have gone without the magic, or science, whatever it was."

“Oh,” Tony says, looking very hard to compose his face.

Steve sighs, if it’s out, it may as well all be. If anything, it's a test run for his upcoming talk with Bucky. “I never even got trained to fight. I was scrappy as a kid, until I met Bucky, and he taught me anything that I know now. And what he couldn't he always had my six for. But boxing lessons weren’t a high priority while Hydra hunting in Europe, so putting them to use in this body, it was a combination of whatever worked and whatever I made work. When I fight, it’s dirty, street rules. That guy, he was too polished, and using rules I don’t know about because as far as I’m aware, there are no rules.”

“Well, with any luck, and Bruce’s help, it won’t come to that again.” Tony walks around, one last time, and picks up Steve's shield. He stares at it, as he mutters, "He hates this, you know."

"I don't think anyone exactly likes this."

"I know, it's just, we're all going to have to sit in a small confined space, for many hours, thousands of feet in the air, with Bucky's mood. It's not going to be pleasant." 

"We're going on a plane?"

"Steve," Tony says slowly, but he's sure no one mentioned that. At all. "Bruce was last known to be in India."

His mouth drops to the floor, and when he picks it back up, he manages, "We're going to _India?_ "

"You don't have to come. You could stay here. The Tower is the safest place in the world for you right now. Theoretically, but I'll back it with every penny I have, which is a lot."

"I - no. Of course I'm not staying. I just didn't realise. _India_." He lets the country sink in, wondering exactly how far away it is. A long, long way, is all the statistics his mind can conjure. "We can't just, call? Or something?"

"Bruce won't exactly answer. I'm not convinced he'll even help, he's been reluctant in the past, but I'd rather try him first rather than a last resort, after someone's paid the price for it."

"India's so far," he repeats, just in case Tony's not aware, but it's clear that he is, and slightly amused.

"12 hours," he says, and Steve just looks skyward, nothing left in him to be shocked. "You are welcome to stay here though. Pep will look after you, keep you entertained." Steve just shakes his head, and Tony doesn't look like he expected a different answer the second time. "Well, it might make the trip more enjoyable. I think Bucky's torn between keeping you safe, and keeping you in arms reach at all times. Some sort of separation anxiety we’ll deal with later. But I've known Bucky my whole life, and I've never seen him like this. Almost a breaking point. This Winter Soldier? I told you, but hell, just the name alone scares me. Let alone having lived through it. I'm scared of what it'll do to Bucky. So do me a favour, and don’t add to that, alright?” 

"Apparently my personality is a trigger of it's own, so I make no promises."

"Boy, do I ever feel that. So, if I give you your shield back, you ever going to give it up again?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, continuing with his honesty. 

Tony hands it to him regardless, and Steve feels both heavy and comforted by the weight. "Not looking to jump back into the army, then? Or S.H.I.E.L.D?"

“You work for S.H.I.E.L.D?” Bucky mentioned something, but Steve’s now not exactly sure _what_ Tony does. Or is. He’s politely ignoring the glowing light from his chest.

“I advise. When they do things wrong. Which is often. You don’t like them,” Tony states, not a question.

“Well, it seems they’ve done a bit for me, and Bucky,” he says slowly.

“But?” 

“I’m not sure I agree with some of their methods that I’ve seen, so far. Or outcomes, for that matter.”

“Mmmm, that’s an interesting and completely third party outside objective. How so?”

“Bucky. They say they’re helping, with his mind. But I don’t think they are. Not if he has to face violence, and Hydra, every day.”

Tony makes a non-committal noise, but follows it with, “I guess if you worked for S.H.I.E.L.D you could always keep an eye on him. You’ll hate it though, and grow to resent him if you do it all for him. It’d keep you close, both in Washington, with training you'll be good enough to be teamed up together. They have rules, about relationships or whatnot, but Bucky and Nat seem to have gotten round them. That, or you could claim homophobia or something. Government hates that sort of attention, even in a secret organisation, especially if it goes viral.”

It's Steve's own turn to prompt with a, “But?”

“Honestly? I’d love for you just to take Bucky and get far away. From society, from the way life is now. I think he’d do well on a farm, get his hands dirty in a different way, with open space and land and nothing but a good hard day’s work to tire him out.” 

Steve might not hate that either. As much as he loves Brooklyn, a farm, an island, he now knows it doesn't matter _where_ , rather _who_. But that's a thought after after. After _India_. “Thank you,” he says instead. “For the suit. And all the presents. Well, except the jacket.”

“Yeah yeah, well, we're done here. Go on, get out,” Tony says, but Bucky was right about the gratitude. He’s looking immensely embarrassed, but there’s a glint in his eyes that suggests otherwise.

Steve is thankful for the suit. It's comfortable, even walking, a much less rigid fabric than he's used to, and Steve trusts Tony enough to believe it’ll help stop bullets and blades. He just wishes he didn't have to, even given an out, he wishes none of them had to.

If Steve has his way, this will be the last fight he'll never not run from. 

He's so lost in his thoughts as he enters Bucky's apartment, setting his shield down and heading towards the kitchen for a glass of water to begin working through what would even be a semblance of justice for his conversation with Bucky, that he startles a little when he catches sight of Bucky, already there, still like a caught animal, on the lounge. “Jesus,” Steve gasps. Whether deliberate or not, the silent presence is a painful reminder.

The colour drains from Bucky's face, and Steve waits for the what should be a casual ‘Nope, just me’. But it doesn’t come, it's replaced with a soft, “Do you want me to go?”

“No, no, I just-, you’re so quiet these days. Even just, exist quietly.” There’s no skirting around it, and his battleplan of bright, red letters spelling out HONESTY worked well enough with Tony, and Natasha, he's going to keep at it. “Something even I don’t know you’re in a room. Restarts my heart a little, is all.”

Restarts it enough to make it hurt again, seeing Bucky in a tactical uniform. He wants desperately to put Bucky back in pajamas, pile blankets on top, until there's not a single hair on his head peeping into the world.

Bucky’s jaw clench suggests the same as he takes in Steve's new look.

Steve continues his walk to the kitchen for water, his mouth dryer than it should be, and to give him something to do, to hold onto, to fill the silence Bucky's forcing on them. He turns back to watch Bucky pull on his boots, slumps down a little against the counter as he sips slowly.

It’s the first time he’s seen the metal arm from more than the elbow down, but for this uniform, Bucky has kept it bare up until his shoulder. Steve still can’t see where it attaches, and thinks to his muscle’s memory, the day he clasped Bucky on the shoulder, and knows it connects half between his chest and shoulder. A smart move, no point restricting movement if it’s bullet and everything else proof. The actual suit is navy, with more brown than Steve’s, but it does look a lot like Steve’s, he understands with a tender fondness towards Tony. But balanced with that, it closely resembles Bucky's Sergeants uniform, from two weeks ago, though for everyone else it’s been much, much longer. When Bucky shifts a little on the couch for a better angle, Steve can see there's a small white wing, outlined in Navy, painted over the top where the faux muscle bulges. A familiar wing. Steve pushes down the heart ache and break, the disgust and despair, with another swallow of water and asks lighter than he thought possible, “Your parents know you got a tattoo?”

Bucky shrugs, re-arranging a knife onto the inside of his right boot, and says in his shiver inducing, void tone, “Sure they’d like it more than the Commy star it used to be.”

“Did you at least get to choose this one?" When Bucky eventually nods, Steve fumbles, “Good. That’s- good, I’m glad. It's nice.”

Nice is, that's not the word he wants to say, but he doesn't know how to describe the sight of it, and how it makes him feel. Steve takes another sip in the silence, taking in the tension in Bucky's body, the hard set of his jaw, and he wants to just rub it all away, with an eraser or his hands, until his Bucky shines through. He doesn't want to just draw over, or grab a new sheet, that's never worked for him in the past, and this isn't some failed artistic creation. This is _Bucky_.

"I-. Natasha told me why you asked me to leave," Steve blurts out. "I don't want to. And I don't think I should, not when it's not for the right reason."

"What reason is gonna be good enough for you, then?" Bucky asks gruffly.

"Jesus, Buck,” Steve sighs, and lets his head hang, shaking a little. “Nothing,” he says, and then again, a little stronger. “There isn’t anything you can say to get me to go. Nothing you could do. Or have done.”

"There should be."

“Bucky, I have nothing in this world. I never did, without you. And, when I didn't have you, well,” Steve prepares himself to finally offer his own, worst confessional. “Thought I was following you. Woulda followed you anywhere.”

Bucky's head snaps up. Steve hates the gaze, hates how it pierces right through, but holds it steady, until it's Bucky who looks away first. He picks a spot near the door, and swallows a few times, before he allows some emotion into his voice. "You never said."

"Neither did you. And I can't keep going through your friends. It isn't right, it isn't us."

"I'm not, I'm not, I'm not him. I can't ever be. Not after everything I've done."

"You are. To me. You're still Bucky. I told you before, a week ago, before I knew any of this. You'll never be anyone else."

"Then Natasha didn't-,"

"Yes, she did. And I listened, but now you're not. I don't care, about that. I care about you. That's all."

"You don't understand," he urges, and even from here, Steve can see a shine to his eyes.

"Then help me to. Talk to me." Bucky opens his mouth, to protest but stops when Steve breathes through his nose in exasperation. Steve is still low on the counter, he's long forgone the glass in case he shatters it, but instead his hands are gripped a little too tight on the bench. He takes another breath to and lets it go, along with it, the remainder of his frustration. "C'mere," he mutters as he jerks his head a little, and Bucky looks at him again, in disbelief.

It's only when Steve relinquishes all of his dignity and begs with a small "Please," that Bucky approaches, albeit hesitantly. He stops a distance from Steve, but far enough away that Steve can reach, he _can_ , he _did,_ and he _does_ , pulling his arm, and by extension Bucky, into him. With a decreased height due to his posture, Bucky can just rest his chin on Steve’s shoulder, rather than buried in his chest. It’s new, Steve doesn’t like it more or less than a full standing hug, what he knows their hugs to be. He’s just glad Bucky is hugging him at all, letting Steve hug him, is _here_ to hug him.

And for all his stupidity, Steve is here too.

“Now who’s tense about it,” Steve mumbles, when Bucky just stands there, his hands either side of Steve’s hips on the bench. It doesn’t get a laugh, but Bucky does bring his hands up. They clench into Steve’s uniform, rather than hold him, but at this stage, he’ll take it.

It's different to Natasha's method, but it's not a quick hug, and in time, he can feel Bucky's breathing even his, or his Bucky's. Whichever way, Steve _finally_ has air.

Bucky sniffs, it’s impossible to hide it so close to Steve’s ears. Steve’s arms were resting on the lower of Bucky’s back, he keeps one there lest Bucky try to pull away, but uses the other rub up and down, the way he knows feels good, the was Bucky does for him in comfort.

“Forgot this ear works now,” Bucky says weakly, a little choked.

The idea causes him to pause a little, but Steve keeps up the motion, the pretense, though his mind wonders if when Bucky remembered him, all these years, which Steve did he imagine? Perhaps he favoured the little, because that was 13 years of memories, rather than 18 months. Though, he's not sure how Bucky's memories work, with all that he went through.

One thing at a time.

"Can we just, talk like this, for a bit?" Steve asks. The truth might be, not manageable, but something close to, if he at least knows there's Bucky at the end of all of it. “My dream, well nightmare, last night. It was about the train. I couldn’t reach you. But it’s not that, I-, I didn’t even try.”

Bucky stiffens at Steve’s explanation. “You did. Of all the things they didn’t want me to remember, I never forgot that. You did.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“This wasn’t your fault, Steve.” Steve huffs out a small ball of air. “It’s not. Don’t you dare.”

“If I tell you the same thing, will you believe it?”

“This isn’t about that.”

“Yes it is," Steve says, trying to keep the earlier annoyance out of his breath still now. "Just, work with me here."

“Like this?”

“Yeah,” because it is easier, to not have to guard his own expressions, to not see Bucky’s. To know he’s here. Bucky doesn't reply, but it's less of a tentative touch now, and more of a hold, and Bucky settles more of his weight onto Steve's shoulder. “One for one?”

“If we gotta.”

"We do. I’ll start,” Steve says before he realises he doesn’t even know where the start is. Logically, thinking to yesterday, he runs through what Natasha said, the first part of their narrative that Steve understood was no longer _theirs._ “Why did no one ever tell me about Krausberg, and the guard, Lohmer.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, Steve can feel it expanding every part of his torso, “You never wanted to hurt anyone, just to do what was right. We, for me, that was the start. Of murder. We didn’t need it to touch you.”

“Bucky, it was war. It was all murder.”

“There’s a difference.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, more adamant than he’s heard on anything else, and moves to pull away, but Steve anchors him in.

“Because you chose to do it,” he says once Bucky's settled again.

“Because we planned it. We wanted it.”

“We planned the missions as the Commandos. We knew people were going to get hurt. Every time I put that shield up, I knew I was killing one person.”

“But you only ever did it to help people," Bucky says in a quiet whisper. "To save people.”

“You can’t put me on a pedestal like that. It’s not fair. And it’s not right.”

“It is right.”

“You’re the only one left who won’t do that. I’m not him, whoever he is these days. Please don’t do that." Steve sighs, so heavy, and leans more of his heads weight onto Bucky's shoulder in return. It's not about that, him, right now. "Either it’s all murder, or none of it is." Bucky nods, so Steve feels emboldened. "And if that's the logic I know you're still going to run in your head after this is done, make sure you think about how someone else, how _Hydra_ planned all that for you. They wanted it, not you. It wasn't your fault." Bucky says nothing. "It’s alright not to be okay about it. But not like this, not like you have been. Yeah? Yeah?” He asks again, moving his hands to the side of Bucky’s ribs. Bucky nods, chin bobbing over Steve's shoulder, so Steve grants him, “Alright, your turn.”

"Yesterday," Bucky starts, but Steve can feel the swallow against his skin. “You were…” he trails off.

“I was upset," Steve admits. "Not because of what you did, but because of what happened to you.”

“The _roof_ , Steve,” Bucky says miserably. “You, hate heights. Not even roller coasters.”

“Feels a bit like a roller coaster, if I’m honest.”

Bucky doesn’t appreciate it, and his hands press tighter at the words, this time Steve can feel the heat against his body. “The plane, and now this.”

“That’s why everyone is tiptoeing around me?” Steve asks, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “I wasn’t looking to kill myself, Buck. I promise you. I meant it, about the air. I just, can’t breathe sometimes. Like I’m drowning, all over again.”

“You remember that?” Bucky asks softly, and it's Steve's turn to only nod. “Do you always feel like that?”

“A bit, yeah. Just, it feels like I’m suffocating. All the time, in this century. Like my asthma’s back, only in this body it should be impossible. But it’s more than that. It’s like my body knows I should be dead. And you-, you should be dead. Twice over, and more.”

"You said, about the plane..."

"That's two," Steve scowls, but relents, because it's Bucky. Whether it's a kindness, or it's just that he would give Bucky anything and more, before any of this, he answer, "I didn’t set out to do it, but I wasn’t having a great time either. I think you get that. But yeah, when a chance came up for something, anything good, to come from your death, meaning the Eastern Seaboard didn’t go up in flames, then yeah, I wasn’t exactly looking for plan C's.”

They stand a while in silence, before Steve realises it's his turn again.

"Tony shocked me before, is all, when he mentioned your arm. You said you lost your arm in the fall," he chooses, still working through Natasha's timeline.

He feels cheek chewing against his neck, but Steve holds firm. He's stubborn enough to outlast Bucky, if need be. "I did. It was, up to the elbow. But it, for a while, it didn't really matter, but when they wanted a weapon, they needed two arms. And what they made, it didn't really work with what was, what was left." Steve almost wants to offer Bucky his own water, for how dry his voice sounds, but is afraid is he interrupts Bucky, he'll stop for good. "They didn't really care much, well, it doesn't matter, nothing would have kept me asleep anyway."

Bucky asked two for his, so Steve evens the score. "Before all that, before the serum. In Krausberg, did they, did Zola...?"

Bucky nods, then shrugs, just a small motion, and re-settles his chin afterwards, seeming just as content in the position as Steve is. "I think that was part of it. Seeing how much could be handled. He used to take notes, about it. Fucked if I know what they said."

Steve's hands tighten a little into the unyielding fabric of Bucky's uniform, and it's Bucky's turn to pat where his hands are resting.

He gives Steve a bit of time, before starting his own, “Is there any part that-"

“Nope,” Steve cuts him off, firmly.

“But-”

“No, Bucky. I said no, and I mean it. Listen to my heart, I know you can hear it because I can hear yours. Listen, and then believe it.” Although his heart might accidentally be a little faster than usual, they've been standing close for a while, but it’s steady, and he hopes that’s enough. Bucky still stays in silence. “I’ll say it as much as you need.” These not much he actually wants to know in depth about the methods, the actions that Natasha explained, so he skips through, to what he supposes, is the most important of it all. “Why didn't you want me to know? Why didn't you tell me?" 

“I thought you would leave. If you knew. If you knew exactly.”

“Do you really think so little of me?”

“Did I ever think I’d think so little of my parents? Jesus, Steve, everyone left me. You first, then my family, Peggy, the Commandos."

“Peggy didn’t leave you. She’s always been there for you.”

"She has her own life, though. She spent every single day with me for five years, and now I only get once a week with her. I know what it sounds like, it's pathetic, and I know I shouldn't feel that way, but I do." Bucky's talking without preamble now. "All of the Commandos died, my Ma didn't even recognise me, and Pa told me never to step a foot back in New York, said he never even had a son."

It's nothing Steve can help, how others have treated him, what's in the past, but he can say this. “Well, I’m not any of them,” and hope that the meaning sits as deep for Bucky as it does for him, without explaining further. "And I'm here. A bit late, I'll take that, but I'm here, and I'll make up for that."

"It doesn't matter," Bucky laughs mirthlessly, almost ignoring him, "because the fact is that really, I’m so fucked up even Hydra doesn’t want me back,” he moves his hands from Steve's back to wipe at his eyes.

"You're not fucked up, Bucky," Steve says, and holds a little tighter himself. He tries to pull him closer, but they're already as close as they can be, so he settles on the grip to convey his words instead. 

Bucky snorts. "How many times I hold a knife to you before last week."

"That's not-, no. I've seen fucked up, Bucky, and he had a red face.” he wants to talk until his face is blue, but much like the fear about Steve leaving, he thinks this might take time to get past. And no doubt he’s not the only one who will be dealing with it, so he leaves it for now. “Why did you ask me to go then, if that's what you were worried about in the first place?"

"Because you're too good to leave on your own. I didn't want, you don't deserve for that to be your life. You don't need it to touch you."

"Natasha's going to be pissed to hear that. She said she'd be proud, that you chose to guard yourself."

"Well, I didn't promise her the truth," he grumbles, then sighs. "She'll mostly be angry that she's wrong. She's never wrong."

"No, Buck. She'll be upset because she cares about you. And so do I." 

“I became the very thing you were made to destroy, Steve. That you died for. That was me.”

"It wasn't," Steve insists. 

"You sound like a broken record."

"We enjoy it, pal. It's gonna be your new favourite sound."

"I guess Natasha wasn't fully wrong, I was a bit selfish. I knew it'd come out eventually, but the longer it didn't, even though I don't deserve it, I thought I could enjoy it for a bit while it lasted. And I did."

"Bucky," he says firmly, sharply. "There's nothing you deserve in this world, that's less than the best. You hear me?" Bucky doesn't answer. "What, you deaf now? Come on, reverse it for me. If it was me, and not you, what would you say?"

"It wouldn't have happened to you, because you're better," he says, and the misery is clear.

"I'm terribly sorry, sirs, but it seems that the other members of the group are preparing for departure."

“They can wait,” Steve commands, but Bucky shakes his head. “Yes, Bucky,” he says firmly, tightening his grip. “This is important.”

“My family,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve sucks in a deep breath, feeling disgusted in himself for once again not even thinking of them. Not even thinking of Bucky, just of himself. "Alright." They break apart, slowly, Steve is glad that Bucky doesn't rip out of his arms, even if he looks to the kitchen counter while Steve inspects his face. "Hey," he says softly, but Bucky still doesn't look at him. He shakes his forearm gently, and follows with, “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t – I’m not sure there is anything I can say. And if there is, I don’t have the words for it yet. Other than that you’re still you to me, and I’m not going, not even if you fight me on it, I’ll fight back. And I think I’ve got your own people on my side, so I wouldn’t try. And I don’t want to fight you, I want you to tell me what I can do for it. I just, I need some time. And for you to talk to me. Actually talk to me.”

Bucky relents, and nods. He lets out his own exhale, which seems to wipe the worst of his emotions from his face. “Are you gonna be okay on the plane?”

Steve shrugs a little. “I don’t know.”

“Do I gotta be worried?”

“Not sure it was your turn. But no. I’ll let you know if you do. I promised that at the start.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’m the only liar been around here lately.”

It's not incorrect, and he acknowledges it with a tilt of his head. "It's fine, Buck. I'd really like for this to be over. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but I'd really like to go back to D.C. Soon, if we can manage it."

"See, D.C ain't so bad."

"India, Tony says?" Steve asks again with a shake of his head, just to be sure.

Bucky gives a half smile, with only one side of his face. It's still sad, but ever so Bucky, and he says, "Namaskar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this... Communication?
> 
> If so, ergh, gross. Gimme back my angst please, boys.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please, Doctor Banner. I need your help. Steve Rogers needs your help.”
> 
> “If you were trying to entice me by presenting me with an enhanced, perhaps a cure, a chance at normality, you would have done that years ago with your Sergeant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the endgame now!

Suit on, shield ready, it seems there’s nothing left to do but actually go.

Truthfully, Steve hadn’t actually given much thought to stepping back onto a plane, because he never knew it was happening, and then when he did, he was far too preoccupied with cementing his fragile foundations with Bucky than understanding the enormity of the idea on himself.

But now…

In fact, maybe it's better than he hadn't known, hadn't worried, because this- this isn't worry, he doesn't think. Nor is it apprehension or anxiety.

It's straight up fear.

Steve could argue somewhat that it's about this Soldier, and what he could do to him, and Bucky, but that would be a lie that even the untrained could spot. Even he can’t convince himself of it. He hadn't been fond of his first plane trip, Howard's plane trip, not from the second Peggy intercepted his rather skeleton plan. Regardless of her sure presence, the rattling of bullets and jumping out with the knowledge that it was all for naught and Bucky was likely already dead, hadn't exactly been a great start for his life in aviation. The following few experiences had been fair, all accompanied by Bucky and the Commandos, on quick but important trips to and from London, where he'd kept a bold face, his discomfort internal and the air time turned out far less eventful. When Steve thinks back, he thinks that most of his anxiety about was directed towards the upcoming talk to Phillips and the other big wigs in the London office, events that were just as harrowing as the Hydra they'd come from.

No- he takes that back. Very much so, almost disgusted in himself for even thinking of it.

Hydra is no joke.

They travel down to Tony’s suite in silence, but not uncomfortable like their previous shared ride, to where Natasha and Clint are waiting. It seems that Bucky, or someone, but he’s banking on Bucky, is so fearful for their safety that only Clint slips away to wherever Tony’s plane is, and is going to fly it close enough to the Tower that they can all just enter while it’s in the air.

“Is that allowed?”

“It’s Tony,” Natasha says dryly.

“So it _is_ allowed?”

“Mostly. If it’s not, he has a friend in high places. Colonel type places. Rhodes cleans up more of our messes than he signed up for. In fact, I’m not sure he ever signed up for anything, not even Tony’s friendship. But the outside of the plane has a camouflage on it, and it’s quiet enough it can be disguised as another New York noise. If anyone happens to spot us climbing up from the ground, well, weirder things have been seen at this Tower.”

"It's not camouflage," Tony tsks. "Retro reflective panels on the outside of the ship. Reflects light, minimal scattering, so that it appears would you would call invisible, but what you see is actually just a product of it's surroundings."

“That makes complete sense,” Steve says, to both Natasha and Tony, then continues looking out at the Manhattan skyline, as Tony steps into his red and gold _Iron_ Man suit, apparently, and salutes before heading off to do his organised lap of the island, a small enough distraction for the jet to slip in, before he loops back to join them on the plane.

He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him the whole while, and true to their new agreement, Steve just gives a one sided smile and one shouldered hug, then goes back to staring out the massive windows. It has to be done. He’s not letting Bucky go alone.

It’s a better camouflage than Steve has ever seen, certainly not green or black. In fact, he barely even notices until the skyline starts to slightly blur, just around the edges, and there is an ever so faint whooshing, much less than a plane should ever be able to make, than he knows a plane to make even in its last, fizzling, drowning moments.

It doesn’t matter anyway, the loudest noise he still knows is that of a train on icy tracks.

“You can stay here,” Bucky mutters, one last out.

It’s not really an option. “No, I can’t.”

Bucky nods, despondent, and Steve is somewhat shocked, that there’s nothing else that accompanies with it. Bucky had only just let him start buttering his own toast a few days ago without lectures of how he could slip on dropped butter or somehow stab his fairly impenetrable skin with blunt knives, but with Tony’s insight and his own personal feelings, regardless of how high stakes this will turn out to be, he knows that they both couldn’t stand to be out of each other’s sight right now.

Bucky grips his shoulder tight, for a little too long, while Natasha climbs up. There’s no delaying it, so Steve heads up after Bucky triple checks his belt harness to the ladder, Natasha tracking his movements. Bucky follows, close behind.

“Swap out,” Bucky says to Clint as his head pops through, then shoulders, shimmying up until his boots clear and he shuts the small trapdoor, unlatching his own belt from the retractable ladder.

Clint gives him a confused look, then looks over his shoulder at Steve, and offers an almost imperceptible, “Ah.”

Steve can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed to know they’re all looking, they’re all thinking, about him. There’s nothing in their faces that suggest he should, and besides- it’s a fucking plane.

As far as planes go, it’s an upgraded version of what Howards first plane looked like, though more military, more stealth. There’s wide, open sections of windscreen in front, and an outline of a ramp closing at the back, so Steve sets himself down somewhere between the two on a line of comforted benches. Middle, he thinks. Middle is good. He looks at the seat straps for a moment too long, aware of more eyes on him, but decides against it. He’s not sure strapping himself in would be the best idea, for anyone.

It is better, he thinks, with Bucky flying. He trusts Bucky, with more than his life, and it’s somewhat easier to distance all thoughts of what a plane can bring, where his unpleasant experience stemmed from in the first place when it’s _Bucky_ so clearly in the window.

So clearly, that he almost wouldn’t even be embarrassed, or fearful of retribution if he went and sat closer, for extra comfort. He quells the thought quickly, being simply near Bucky wouldn’t be enough right now, no proximity short of their usual sleeping arrangement could quite calm him.

Now that he's actually aboard, and, for lack of a better word, comforted by Bucky flying, he understands that it's not just the plane, though that's a significant portion of his fear. Colouring it, in swift strokes and bold shades, is also the idea that _he's_ not in charge. There was always the crippling concern as Captain of the Commandos to keep his team safe, that he was their own Angel of Death, their Judgement Day, but it was something he dealt with by _being_ in charge. He could triple check plans, offer himself up first, and if met with resistance, pull rank and not suffer consequences, besides that of a burnt ear and a few days silence from Bucky. Now, he has the same need, for these people he's just met, and Bucky, who he just got back after his worst fear was met, but he's _not_ in charge. The colour gets stronger when he knows that, he has all the facts now, he's sure of it, but he's still not quite sure he fully understands them.

But this is exactly why he needs to be on the plane.

So he stays in his seat, focusing on breathing at regular intervals and blinking as much as a human should, even though it’s pointless with his heart thumping so loud he’s sure even Clint and Natasha can hear it and are politely ignoring it.

Although-

He catches sight of a large ear plugs in Clint’s ears, and the slight tracking of his eyes to Natasha’s lips when she murmurs something, in a way which does not radiate romance or intimacy. Steve’s had his own struggles with hearing, and although the aiding devices he knows are large and bulky batteries, if Tony can build an entire arm for Bucky, he has no doubt he could build an ear device for Clint if that was the case.

It’s no matter, because he’s sure Clint would know anyway.

Steve shivers a little, then hears a quiet hiss and a warm blow of air, not unlike when he first woke, but now heat, in a plane, on a mission, it doesn’t do much.

The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Natasha, who quirks an eyebrow up, and moves to sit by him, both Bucky and Clint following her movements. She continues her talk with Clint, Steve doesn’t even notice what, or if it’s English, but the cadence of her voice is nice. Somehow she’s breathing evenly throughout the whole thing, and Steve focuses on that just as much as her voice, soon losing both time and space.

The belts might have stopped him from jumping an extra ten feet in the air, when the ramp opens and Tony flies in _while the plane is still moving_.

“Well, whaddya think?” Tony asks, his face plate disappearing, before stepping out of the suit completely. He explains, “Suit’s great, but not comfortable enough for a 14 hour flight.”

“You said 12,” Steve murmurs.

“12, 14, is there a difference?”

“Bucky said you're some sort of genius, but I gotta tell you pal, I knew the difference at age 6. And I skipped half that school year with bad lungs.”

“Yeah, alright, wise guy.”

“It’s normally 16 hours, with a few stopovers,” Clint offers somewhat unhelpfully. “But Tony’s done enough to shave a few hours off and extend the tank, so, I mean, it could be worse?”

Steve’s glad he’s not the only one, when Natasha sighs resignedly at Clint's comment, and Tony just shrugs, and heads to sit next to Bucky at the controls. Natasha doesn’t speak again, which is also unhelpful, so he listens to Tony and Bucky’s conversation, about flight details and schematics which are boring and confusing, and somehow not the same sort of calming as Natasha’s words.

“Time it, Stevie,” Bucky dares as he must notice a change in Steve's demeanor. He frowns a little, as he doesn’t have a watch, until he realises Bucky means mentally. Painstakingly, count every individual second up to, Steve can’t do that sort of maths, 14 hours of seconds, which, actually, might be enough of a distraction as he’ll get right now. “I’d love for someone to prove him wrong for once.”

“When you do, let’s add 829 seconds for the time up until now. Or you could count back from 50,400 and we’ll see who gets there first.” It seems Tony can do the maths.

So Steve starts counting, backwards, because the numbers there are longer and take more effort. When he reaches 46,347 he’s struck by a sudden thought.

“This thing go to space?” He asks loudly, into a cabin that was clearly unsuspecting of his contribution to conversation. He’s slightly amused, not caring for his counting now, with the thought that they’re all mostly terrible at their jobs if he managed to startle them. The amusement is quickly washed away with an icy dread as he realises, if they are, then that doesn’t bode well for their expedition. For Bucky.

Tony looks affronted, and Bucky looks over his shoulder. 

“Stevie wants to be an astronaut,” Bucky says, with a grin, a genuine one and it settles him some, enough to give back his own small smile.

“I mean, not yet. It could. What, do I not meet your expectations?” 

Steve just shrugs, careful not to bump Natasha’s shoulder. 

He continues the counting from there when no more conversation is offered his way, but it's not the same calm as before. The pause, the distraction, the awful, self inflicted doubts that have crept into his head. With so much anxious energy that is unable to escape, the only explanation Steve can offer is that his body is trying so hard to metabolise it, that it's draining him of his energy. The longer he fights himself to stay collected, the more exhausted he finds himself.

Steve doesn't mean to, but his eyes slide shut, head landing not gently on Natasha’s shoulder with a small thump. His last understanding of consciousness is that the position should help him track her breathing, but finds he ends up focusing on Bucky’s instead.

He sleeps, and dreams again, this time a kaleidoscope of blacks and greys and of bedtime stories from Russia. 

Steve wakes with a shock and a gasp, loud enough that all occupants of the jet offer polite ignorance again, and it takes him a minute to realise they’re no longer in the air, that perhaps it was a landing that woke him.

“Alright,” Tony speaks loud and clear once Steve’s brushed all the sleep out of his eyes and accepted another power ration from Bucky who’s face is grim. “First, Clint and I will clear all the civilians out. Nat will create a faux diversion, in case Nutso Nazis have actually followed us, and then lure Bruce in. Steve, Buck, you stay on the plane, if there is any sign of trouble, you have a getaway to a place of Bucky’s choosing.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, he must have slept through the tactical discussion part of the flight, and he’s not liking what he hears, but Bucky just shoves a water bottle into his open mouth at the opportunity. The trio look on amused as Steve splutters a little at the surprise, and Tony waits until he’s quietened down to continue again. “We’ve all discussed it, and it’s sorted, Steve. I know you invented the word stubborn but there’s no fighting this. We have our own plan B if that’s the case, which we won’t tell you lest there be some glorious form of interrogation involved on either of our ends.”

Steve glowers a little, both at the admonishment and the actual plan, and takes his own sip of the water, going down a little easier this time. Tony looks somewhat smug when he doesn’t argue, which only makes Steve glower further and Bucky amused, so, somewhat, Steve is alright with it.

“But it’s a plan B, actually a plan Z, cuz it’s not actually going to happen. We’re going to clear all civilians out, Natasha will meet us all back here, and we’ll head off to Bruce. Natasha will negotiate. Steve, you cover her, anything goes south you get her out, alright? I’ll be on standby for civilian damage control and Hulk containment, and Clint and Bucky are better from afar so they’ll cover any bases required from long range, including lookouts. Capiche?”

It’s clear that they’ve already agreed on it without him, and the experience in him can’t help but admit it’s as solid as a plan as he could come up with himself, so he sighs and nods while taking another sip. God, he’s not a fan of too much water, he’s sure he’s had enough of it for as long a lifetime as he's going to live, but his mouth is so dry, so so dry, he’s not even sure he could manage words out.

Steve stands, to join the others already risen, as the roof folds down to expose a weapons munition. Natasha takes down three sorts of handguns and hands them to Steve, who looks at them a little hesitantly before she explains, “I need you to carry mine. I would rather not have Bruce catch sight of them, and I trust you enough to either provide me in time with my own offense or your defence should anything happen. I will signal you if it does, as I believe our definition of a 'situation' may differ.”

He nods and accepts them, and additionally accepts ear plugs similar looking to the ones Clint has, the ones Phil also wear, and Steve frowns at them a little.

“Comm links, built the mic into your cowl,” Tony says as he passes across a matching helmet for his uniform to Steve.

“Radios,” Bucky clarifies, as he adjusts his in. “You’ll hear us all in your ear, and just speak normally to respond, there’s a microphone just above the chin strap. No buttons or requests needed, everything anyone from here on out will be heard by anyone else on the line.”

He presses his lips together gratefully, and dons the helmet, and they all test the comms as per Tony’s request. It’s odd, to hear the voices in his ear, so close to his brain, in a way that reminds him of how he momentarily though Jarvis was his own consciousness slipping out of him. Mostly, it’s comforting, to know that although Bucky will mostly likely choose a position in which he can see Steve and Steve can’t see him back, he can still get verbal confirmation that he’s alright. God, these would have been more handy than the hunk of machinery Morita lugged around with them.

Tony’s weapons appear to be in his suit already, and he knows for a fact that Bucky’s already got several knives hidden on his body, so it’s uneventful when he only takes down a sniper rifle and does several checks of the weapon. Clint, however, is a different story.

“Sniper?” Steve asks, because it’s what he assumed, with the comments about long range, but there’s a frown as he sees him slip on a three finger guard.

Clint quirks up one side of his mouth, and shakes his head. From the weapons wall, his grin grows bigger when he flicks his weapon out.

“You’re joking,” Steve says, staring at it, half in disbelief, half in amazement.

“You’d be surprised at what arrowheads you can whip up,” Tony says, clearly proud, and it dawns on him that Clint and Tony are in cahoots with this.

“I didn’t realise-, I didn’t know bows were still a thing. I mean, not even when I was growing up.”

“Oh yeah. Best thing to ever thing,” Clint replies, looking like a giddy child.

“Clint thinks it's all on his amazing skills, but after the first arrow, everyone's usually as shocked as you are that someone’s that old school, and that's really how he gets the jump on the rest of them,” Tony quips. 

“The bow,” Clint scowls, “Is the superior weapon. Can arch the path around objects, it’s silent, I can reclaim arrowheads. What would you do if you ran out of bullets, if your trigger jammed, powder didn't ignite?” 

“I’d throw the gun at someone's head, then steal your bow,” comes Bucky’s easy return, and it gets chuckles from everyone, but Steve. Who doesn’t feel anything like laughing right now. 

Now that he thinks about it, there are similarities between a bow and a sniper, so he turns his next question to Bucky instead. “Are you good with a bow too?”

“I’m good with everything,” Bucky says evenly, and coming from anyone else, Steve would think it is conceited.

But it’s not.

The three wave them goodbye, and Bucky goes back to sit in the control seat, eyes tracking both the window and the panels, which give them a display of their surroundings.

“Don’t have to worry about saying over, or anything procedural on these units if you don’t want,” Bucky murmurs without looking at him, just intently at the dash. He's on guard, Steve realises, so he sits in the co-pilot seat, and starts a watch too. Bucky looks a little startled, as it dawns on Steve as well that if they do have to take off, he’ll be front seat for it, but luckily just continues on with, “Honestly, Tony once offered a full run down of a thesis he read while we were on a stake out once, so don’t get upset if he does something stupid like that again tonight.”

“No science, copy that Red Leader, over and out,” he hears Tony’s voice in his ear, and despite his early comfort, Steve does twitch a little at the abnormality of it.

Bucky rolls his eyes, then goes back to watching the screens. He does, however, in a similar move to Steve's own at breakfast, place his foot next to Steve's, and it's just enough grounding that he can focus solely on the task at hand. 

They stay like that perhaps for hours, certainly long enough that the morning sun is turning into midday, before he jumps again at Natasha’s voice, a crisp, “All clear.”

“We’re just about done here too,” comes Clint’s reply. “Meet back at the jet.”

It’s not long before they’re all back, and less time before they depart again, this time Steve and Bucky in tow. The group separates just after the forest they’ve landed in, Bucky with one last nod to Steve. He slinks away, disappeared in less than a second leaving Steve gaping at the spot where he just was, before he comes to his sense and realises Natasha could very soon do the same to him if he doesn't catch up. He can't afford to mess this up, so he gives her his own nod when he sees her waiting for him, or confidence and assurance. He follows silently, not even a breath on the comes, as he's lead discretely through a winding city and out the other side, until they’re far past what Steve assumes to be the main community area, to a lone house near more woods.

“Steve, stay in position until I say, no matter if he does go green. Only engage on my say so,” Natasha says as she manhandles him into place. “You’ll have a direct sightline to me, but no surprises. We don’t know what sort of, perhaps, mood, this will put him in.”

She stares at him sternly, enough to still a paralytic fear in him, waiting for an answer. "Yes Ma'am."

“Good. Wish me luck,” she says, with what he thinks to be a genuine smile.

At this, he snorts ungracefully, and it’s met with chuckles through his ear piece. “It’d be a waste of words,” and earns him further curving of her lips.

So Steve stays exactly where Natasha has positioned him, aware that somewhere behind him, both Bucky and Clint have his six, though he’s covered with a brick building at his back. It suddenly dawns on him that he’s not sure how much help he will actually be if something like the video were to occur. The green, Hulk, he thinks Tony calls it, looks far stronger than the Soldier in New York and though he's only been house bound for two weeks, Steve feels wildly out of practice and depth. Nevertheless, it seems Natasha took a bullet, almost for him, so he’ll do what he can.

Not even, he now thinks, for Bucky’s sake. He might be a little endeared to her. And it’s suddenly clear to him, the similarities to Peggy that Bucky mentioned. 

The thought confuses him. He wants to like her, for Bucky's sake, so he can get along with her and not dread all the time he presumes she'll be spending with Bucky after this, and by extension, Steve. 

But he also wants to hate her, for his own sake, to spare his own feelings as much as he can. He's disliked plenty of Bucky's gals before, and they've never stuck around long, but considering how long it's been, and the exact type of women Natasha is, he knows she wont be the same.

Either way he chooses, he knows there wont be a repeat of the car, where he left her to fend for herself. He'll jump in front of whatever for her, like she did him.

Fuck. He’s lost time with his little scenarios, brought back to reality with three confirmed, “In positions,” his own mumbled, and one “Bruce approaching.”

He banishes all thoughts of anything irrelevant from his mind, setting his unblinking eyes on Natasha, until Bruce walks momentarily into view, a small bag with him. To Steve's surprise, he’s a meek man in this form, almost greying, and he looks nervous, but determined. It’s hard to believe this is the same man who could, well, do anything but help, but Steve supposes its just as difficult to believe that he himself is the skinny, sickly, Steve Rogers.

“Hello Doctor Banner,” Natasha says gently, a slight croon, that Steve feels the sorcery even through the radio.

There’s a pause, and Bruce isn’t in his line of sight, so he relies of the audio of either a bugged room, or Natasha's links. “I don’t seem to know you,” comes the tentative reply. “But you seem to know me.”

“I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

“I’ll rephrase that,” Bruce answers, and though his tone is light, something about it is a threat. It sets Steve on edge, inching closer though Natasha told him not to. “I don’t know who you are. Nor do I care,” he adds, then almost as an afterthought, “Perhaps just who you work for.”

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“How did they find me?” Steve can tell she gives a sad smile. “Right. I suppose I should have known. Are you here to kill me?”

“No. And I’m not here for S.H.I.E.L.D, not right now. I’m here to ask for your help.”

“What could someone like you need with someone like me?”

“I am concerned that there seem to be a few others who have endeavoured to replicate what you also attempted. The attempts, I have been aware of for some time. Certainly, your government is not as secure as it could be. What concerns me, however, is the proof that they were successful in ways that you were not.”

“I’m not sure I grasp your meaning, Miss Romanoff, although I should expect nothing less from someone in your line of work.”

There’s a pause, but for all that she’s submerged in espionage, she settles on the truth. “In a short week, I have had the unfortunate experience of meeting with two enhance human beings. One, of which was eliminated, another, which was not. And I am not convinced that he is not the only one which I will meet in my near future.”

“I’m still yet to understand why you are so far from your home. Either of them,” Bruce replies, and Steve can see Natasha tense, ever so imperceptibly, that he’s aware that perhaps they were prepared for a large, green, opponent, they were unprepared for _Bruce._

“There has already been a substantial loss of life, threats made towards others, and with all the uncertainty, I am afraid that these secrets have fallen into the wrong hands, and may be used on a larger scale for important matters."

“All hands it’s in are the wrong hands,” Bruce counters.

“Not quite like this.”

“So you want me to, what," he says mildly, but again, something about it sounds like a threat, a toy, a warning. He steps closer to Natasha, so much so that Steve can now see his boots, "Steal it back? You seem to be the spy here, and clearly know more about it than me.”

“Not quite. I’d like your help to stop the people who aim to use it against us, to stop these beings. The information required afterwards, I am able to seek myself. But I am smart enough to know that I am not able to win the physical portion of the fight.”

“It’s not my help you want.”

“Quite right, Doctor," she says apologetically. "Unfortunately, I would quite like the other guy. But should you help me, I have friends willing to help you out. You, Doctor Banner, in return for your services.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“There are some terms you may be agreeable too. And if there are not, I'm sure we can find some.”

“There’s very little that agrees with me, these days, Miss Romanoff. Either of me.”

“Dangle Stevie,” Bucky says quietly into the ear piece.

Natasha cocks her head, both in acknowledgement, and in a manner that she’s used on Steve, that makes her look young, and innocent. “Please, Doctor Banner. I need your help. Steve Rogers needs your help.”

“If you were trying to entice me by presenting me with an enhanced, perhaps a cure, a chance at normality, you would have done that years ago with your Sergeant.”

Someone, Tony he thinks, hisses into the earpiece. 

Natasha, however stays calm. “Then you understand exactly why we need your help. This new breed, are stronger even than Steve Rogers and James Barnes, so far that we're aware of. And we may be facing an army of them. We want you to help stop a war.”

“You’re rather dramatic-.”

“I’m not," she cuts in, and the same hiss runs through the earpiece. It registers with Natasha, who takes a breath, then continues. "You are aware of how the Cold War, began, yes? The real reason? We are looking to avoid a similar event, and together we’ve proved unable to do so. We need your help. Without it, it’s safe to say, the world may fall into ruin again.”

“That does sound dramatic.”

“You don’t understand-”

“I understand a great many things. I’m sure you know that. One of them is that I am not the one to help you.”

“Doctor Banner, if you would. Should you do this, there are things we can help you with, such as returning home.”

“If you are acting independently, without your S.H.I.E.L.D, I’m not sure you have the ability to promise that.”

“I do. I have very powerful friends. Such as Tony Stark.” Steve takes Natasha's pause as some sort of reaction from Bruce. “He thought it best not to face you himself, after your last encounter.”

“He thought right. I can’t help you. I don't doubt the significance of your plea, if your friends include Tony Stark, Steve Rogers and James Barnes. But my friends include a great, green monster, who is the furthest from a friend. Because none of my friends would so deliberately cause the damage, the deaths, that he does. So no, I won’t help you. I’m not risking all those lives.”

“You’re risking them anyway, these Soldiers will stop at nothing, will get rid of anyone in their way. And once they do, we face catastrophic damage.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to find another way.”

“Call it, Tasha,” Bucky murmurs into his radio.

"I had hoped our conversation today would have gone better, however I am grateful that you have given me the opportunity at all." She pauses for a beat. “I hope your conscience will be not be too burdened by the consequences.”

“I assure you, it will not be. Not as much as it would be if I were to be involved.”

Natasha bows her head in concession, and makes to turn, her eyes going wide as she sees Steve's feet move of their own accord, closer to the building. Her eyes urge him back, but she doesn't have a chance to do anything else, because Bruce speaks again.

“And Miss Romanoff?”

“Natasha, if you will.”

“Should that World War you promise start, you’ll know where to find me to try again. Maybe some food would entice me better, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good, American steak.”

“Certainly, Doctor Banner. Until then,” she says, sweetly.

“Natasha,” Bruce says, quietly. “Just know you are not the first Russian orphan to seek or find this knowledge.”

The words mean nothing to Steve, he doesn’t expect them to, but it stills Natasha in her spot. He knows for her, that’s a terrifying reaction.

“Thank you, Doctor Banner. For that, I will see what I can do. I hope our next meeting will be under better circumstances.”

“And I hope there won’t be a next meeting at all.”

Natasha smiles sadly, but her eyes widen as she sees Steve, or rather doesn’t see Steve, as he makes his way towards them.

He can’t help the path his feet are taking. Tony, Natasha, Bucky even, they’d said this was it, Bruce was their only chance. They can’t just let him slip away. He’s not sure what he’ll say, but he knows it has to be good, he needs Bruce, he needs this to be over.

He needs Bucky to be safe.

“Steve,” Natasha hisses into his ear, but when he blinks, she's disappeared from his sight. “Don’t.”

“What’s he doing,” Bucky’s voice is sharp, instant.

“I’ll handle it,” she says, though much calmer than Bucky. “Fall back to the plane. Double evasive, I doubt it, but in case we have company.”

She appears from behind Steve, who’s made it to the front door of the meeting place by now, and grabs him by the elbow.

“This can't be it. We can’t just leave,” he explains with his own hiss, wildly, a little panicked.

“Stop it. We cannot upset him,” she insists. Steve makes to reply, but Natasha pulls his arm, not gently, and removes his mic and ear piece, same with hers. “Pushing, may very likely do that. This will not help James,” she says firmly. “We can’t afford this, not now. We’ll find another way,” she urges, and for a moment, he sees her own guard drop, a rare vulnerability. “I promise you, with more than my life, that I will not let them come for James.”

He stares her down, “I can’t trust you on that,” he says, despite his earlier thoughts of companionship. “It’s, there's, it’s _Bucky_ ,” he urges.

“I know. Steve,” she says lowly. “I know. I, of all people, understand. And I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is what I have done these past many years.”

He's breathing heavily by now, the oncoming feelings of an asthma attack. But he doesn't have asthma any more. Natasha takes his forehead and leans it into hers, and he knows what's next, seen it many times now, and starts to breath in time with her. 

"This wasn't our only plan, Steve. Just our best. I promise you."

He concedes, nodding unhappily, with a few more breaths before she allows him to pull away.

Steve follows her, doubling back a few times when she does. He waits for her to say it’s clear before settling down on a broken tree, and hangs his head in his hands. It’s done nothing for his mood, having to be stealthy, remembering why exactly they’re being so stealthy, the whole while playing over the thought that this was their best plan, and they all just let it walk away. Natasha stands guard, not speaking, which is good, because he’s both stewing in contained anger and panic, and he’s not sure he could stop from snapping at her once again.

Bucky appears, sprinting out of seemingly nowhere, Clint cursing just moments behind him. “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” Natasha replies, calmly.

He’s furious, Steve can feel the heat, the huff, but Bucky obviously swallows it down after what Steve assumes is a once over of him on the log. Despondent, but not hurt.

“If it’s nothing then don’t go radio silence,” Bucky says, only a small fury lacing his exasperation.

“Perhaps if you ate real food and didn’t fuel yourself on caffeine, your anxiety would be lesser.”

Bucky sighs, letting go of the rest of his anger. “Yes, Tasha,” he says dryly. “That’s exactly the reasoning for it.”

The casual teasing, about something so _horrific_ seems to calm Bucky, but does nothing for Steve, who now feels just shy of the rollercoaster he found himself on only, possibly 24 hours ago. The rollercoaster which is heading full speed down it’s drop into an ocean, he’s close to drowning again.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, tentatively, but Steve just shakes his head, and beads of water, sweat he thinks, flick off and do nothing to dispel his fear of drowning. At that point, Tony walks up with four bags of- Steve can smell it.

“What? I’m hungry. We’ve got a long flight back. No late night fondues around, hey Steve-O?” Tony says with a grin, and he can hear him walk up the ramp, where Natasha and Clint are waiting. “Well? Are you coming?”

Bucky pauses, Steve still can’t see anything but his boots, and says, “Just give us a minute. Tasha? Cover?”

She must agree silently, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Bucky move closer.

“Stevie?” He asks again, but Steve just continues to fail to breathe. The motion is there, the air is not, and he almost wants to call Natasha back for help. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think I can get back on that thing,” he mumbles, feeling, and somehow sounding, nauseous.

It's not entirely true, but it's not a lie either. Getting on the plane, without Bruce, leads them back to America, where Hydra is waiting for Bucky. And now Steve's got the idea of drowning in his head, he can't unfeel it.

“Right now? Or ever.”

“I don’t know,” he manages.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You know I’ll do it, it’s just, we’re weeks away from America otherwise. With not a lot of cover between here and there, trains and boats keep us open for longer.” Steve doesn’t really care for the words right now. “What’s brought this on? You seemed okay on the way over.” Steve shrugs, if that’s what he can call it, a slight rise and fall of his shoulders that could be mistaken for that, whereas Steve is actually attempting to gain more air. “What happened back there, with Tasha?”

“It’s just- Bruce. Why aren’t you more upset about this?”

“I knew this would happen.”

The pressure on his chest is worse at that statement, enough that the ground, his knees, they’re not letting in enough air so he lifts his head, to look at Bucky. “Then-, what? Why did we even come here?”

“If there’s a chance it would draw him away from New York, then,” Bucky shrugs. “Clint and Tasha are convinced he wouldn’t go after my family, it’s not something I would have done, I’m-, he-, they're meant to be better than that. Mind you, he shouldn’t have failed in the first place, so who knows. Maybe it’s all changed,” he says as he shuffles his feet a little, kicking up dirt as he does. He looks away, as he asks, “We still being honest?”

It takes Steve a second to understand what Bucky’s even talking about, he hasn’t seen him in the past few hours. And then it dawns, and Steve’s not sure he can handle it, if there’s any truths that Bucky will say that Natasha hasn’t, the only things she didn’t mention was specific torture methods. So that’s the only thing he doesn’t know. But he's offering, and that's all that Steve wants, so when he nods, Bucky joins him on the log and draws his own knees close. He looks at Steve for moment, down his arm, Steve’s not sure what he’s looking for, but then he finds it. A gap, between Steve’s sleeve and glove, that Bucky can twist a finger into the material. “The way you look? This is about how I always feel anyway.”

Steve can’t stop the small, grunted breath that escapes, but the knowledge doesn’t send him on a downward spiral, he thinks, because he’s already there. It’s no small comfort that Bucky is too. “Then we gotta do something about that. Cause I feel like crap.”

It’s not funny, but Bucky offers an emotionless smirk anyway. Steve lays his head back down onto his free forearm, but keeps his head turned to face Bucky.

"Don't worry, Stevie. I won't let anything happen to you. I said I'll take care of you and funnily enough, that includes keeping you alive."

"I'm not doing this for me, Buck." Bucky frowns slightly at the words, as if he doesn’t understand. “So what now?”

“Well, we got ideas,” Tony calls from the ramp of his plane. “But they come after dinner, and we eat as a family in this household. No guard. Safest’s gonna be in the jet, Cap. Sorry,” he says, and he looks like he means it. "We don't have to go anywhere, just gonna close the doors." 

He weighs it up. Closed doors means enclosed space means a rush of water. But it almost means a hulk of metal that could stop something like a machine gun, and armour or no, he's not sure Bucky would survive that. Steve is living proof that Bucky could survive drowning, and they're both proof of freezing.

And, because of him, Natasha is on guard, alone. As good as she is, he doesn’t like it much, so he assumes the others like it even less, and he can change that. So he does. He nods.

He stands, forgetting Bucky is still partly anchored to him, but not for long, as his finger slips out.

“You sure?” Bucky asks, the concern replacing his earlier confusion.

He nods again, and they enter the jet, Natasha not far behind, and Bucky seats himself next to Steve on the floor as the ramp closes. There's no table, so the floor just sits in the middle of the cabin, the smell overwhelming in a small, enclosed space.

Indian food, apparently, doesn’t come with a knife and fork as long, so Steve takes everyone else’s lead in using the flat breads as a sort of spoon instead. There’s no more discussion about Bucky’s food habits, maybe because Steve pushes portions at him and Bucky doesn’t fuss, though he doesn't eat, or maybe that Steve only ends up eating about as much as him.

It’s not bad, the food, he’s never had it, but he doesn’t care for it much, not when he knows what’s coming.

"Mmm, god," Clint says, in obvious, and oblivious, bliss. "I love Indian food so much. Call me for your next trip too."

“Well, that was fun,” Tony quips, albeit darkly, as he wipes his hands. He passes the napkin box around, and Steve startles to feel that they’re wet, though he didn’t see Tony add water. “We should start a band. Boyband obviously, not K-POP, that’s not-, that’s just. How do you feel about racism, Cap?”

Steve is in no mood for jokes, let alone ones he doesn’t understand.

Bucky himself is dark, but takes pity on Steve. “He means barbershop quartet. You missed Doo-wops by like 3 years. You said you had something,” he turns back to Tony.

“I honestly expected Natasha to catch him in her web, but I still can't say I'm surprised by his answer. We knew it was a long shot anyway.”

Steve doesn’t understand why they’re all so calm. He still feels the slight hysteria that begun the minute Bruce began refusing.

"Our first approach, was based on muscle, on brawn, on pure physical force. I have no doubt the five of us could take him, but we don't know if its just the one. So we need to be smart about or next approach, which I think we should base on intelligence."

"If there was anything to know, Tasha and I would have found it years ago. Hell, I would have found the past 45 years."

Steve is surprised that it’s Clint that cuts in. He doesn’t hide the disbelief, and beside him, Bucky also has a semblance of curiosity. 

“Last week, Buck. This guy, the first guy, he was, I mean, he was good, obviously, but not as good as he should have been. Sloppy, I’d guess you say, in comparison to this one after us right now. Enough that, even without him in the country, I was able to trace his movements back." Clint takes a breath, as if he himself is about to take a deep plunge into icy water. "To Siberia.”

Like an actual jolt of electricity to Bucky, he jerks, then stiffens immediately, face drawn in pain. Steve’s head whips around but something says not to touch him, lest he also get electrocuted.

The rest of the plane is weary, but ride through it, by not actually doing anything other than wait, moments and minutes. Hand pushed into his chest and leaning forward, Bucky eventually pants softly, “Fucking Christ, were you going to tell me?” At Clint’s unimpressed face framed with raised eyebrows, he gives a exasperated, conceding look. "Fair," he grunts.

"We were kinda hoping you wouldn't have to be involved. Not till after. You still don't have to be. But it's on the way, and it's our best bet going forward. If that's where he came from, maybe that's where the others are. Smoke them out, bomb them, or find an empty room with information, all of these seem like better options than doing nothing. Which is what we go back to do in America."

There's nothing but the sound of Bucky's laboured breathing, for long minutes, until he composes his face and his body, and lets out one long, drawn out sigh. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Clint asks, tentative, accompanied with concerned looks from both Natasha and Tony.

“Gonna have to at some point. Rather it with you, then the S.H.I.E.L.D shrinks.”

Natasha quirks her lip up at that, and stands. It’s cue for everyone, except Steve, he only wants to follow Bucky, who stays put, and apparently not satisfied with the position, leans back and lets his head hit the metal wall with a small thump. His eyes drift shut as he breathes deep.

The drawn, the tension, the pale is back. Steve hates it, but he has to ask.

“Bucky,” Steve says lowly. “What’s in Siberia?”

“Home, sweet home.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re not going to be able to look out for anyone if you don’t center yourself first.”
> 
> “I’m trying,” Bucky insists, and Steve can see the panic, the desperation in his eyes, his hands trembling as he fumbles at the buttons at the front of the plane.
> 
> “I know," Steve says softly, gently. "I know you are. Can you let me help you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siberia, man. Idk. Eek.

Steve swallows down the dry dirt, the muck in his mouth, lucky he’s already sitting for how heavy his limbs feel, but he asked, and now, now of all times, Bucky’s actually going to keep talking.

“It’s where I was,” Bucky chokes a little on the words, “Made. Kept,” he murmurs. “Home base, then just, transferred out to where I was needed, when needed, I guess.”

“I thought you-," though he'd tried not to, the only thing he could imagine was Bucky, and the table, in Austria but surrounded by Germans when no one said as such. He swallows again. "I thought it was Russia.”

“Lucky you’ve got more going for you than your geography skills,” Bucky says dryly, eyes still closed, not even soft movements fluttering them from underneath.

“And what’s that, Buck?” Tony quips. “Go on, then, what special skills does he have when it’s just you two.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns, watching, her gaze curious to the pair still on the ground.

Both comments are ignored by Bucky. “I knew it was cold, can't forget that. Tasha and I always assumed as much as to where, but for all we, and even Peggy, Pegs knows _everything_ , she didn't know, it was more of a myth than me. And now,” Bucky snorts a little, a slight huff of air, but there’s no actual emotion in it, “Clint.”

Clint scowls at the jest, and as Natasha ruffles his hair and slings her arm to rest against the pilot seat, he replies, “I’m deaf, not blind, Bucky.” But its kind, and his persona turns even kinder still when he adds, “And I had a lead. An actual lead, not dead information, and a trail, not a cold one. He sent me straight there.”

It's Bucky's turn to swallow, so solid that Steve can hear it, and he wonders how much of the pale, the tight jaw, is frustration in himself, is disappointment and guilt, on top of, God, whatever it actually is that he must be feeling right now.

Steve wants to hold him, he’s not sure what that would do, but it seems like the only thing he can do. Still unsure about the electrocution, he decides Bucky is worth it, and makes to bring his hand to up rest on Bucky’s forearm. Upon the feeling of being watched, he looks up to see Natasha still observing. She makes a slight motion with her head, towards the pilot seat.

Shit.

His hand stops midway to its destination, hovering inches above Bucky's unsuspecting arm. How Steve feels about flying to any destination, let alone Siberia, is somewhat, almost, he could be wildly wrong but he’s not sure that he is, partially comparable to how Bucky feels about flying to Siberia.

Shit.

Two, Lord and Ma forgive him, but that second one was for Bucky.

He looks around the plane, and, situation allowing, Natasha is the one he’d most trust with commanding the plane. Again, he has the thought that he doesn’t want to be in this situation at all, but the only way to not be in it, is to get through it. It’s an awful paradox, and he’s just sitting here flailing, his brain only offering unhelpfully titbits about the book that Bucky told him was written about the conundrum, set in World War II. Catch 22. He was animated about it, Steve thinks back, now that he’s seen possibly the entire range of 21st Century Bucky’s emotions, he’s sure Bucky related very strongly to the fiction.

Natasha’s still looking, Bucky’s still visibly struggling as much as Steve internally is, Clint’s found a chocolate bar which he’s devouring with gusto, and Tony is, honest to Holy God, twiddling his thumbs, just shy of whistling.

At least, if Bucky’s not flying, Steve can sit next to him like he wanted on the first flight, so with that thought, he nods to her, and shifts himself up onto the bench. Bucky notices the motion and looks himself, disorientated, confused as to where his eyes have opened to, or why Natasha is beginning flight checks.

Steve sees the face quickly morph into concern as it notes the jet further preparing. Bucky says Steve is the dictionary right next to stubborn, but Steve reckons there’s a second definition in which Bucky’s own name is added, any of them, so he does the only thing that’ll work against Bucky's protests on Steve's behalf – he deliberately ignores him. He'll stop once Bucky’s strapped himself in, though the restraints are no match for his mental or physical strength.

It was actually unintentional, but Steve makes no move to provide space when he realises he’s half sat in the area Bucky needs to sit in to align with his seatbelt, meaning all their side is pressed up together, from foot to shoulder. It’s not quite like sleeping, but it’s enough, and when the plane takes off, Bucky doesn't grumble or move away, but rather presses the back of their hands together. He looks around, but no one else seems to notice, and for all that he’s been told nowadays people don’t care, even with Tony’s jokes, there’s a sort of panic that just compounds with the fear that’s not really gone away. It, surprisingly, grows less and less, as moments pass on, that Bucky stays next to him, and no one comments. 

“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs to Bucky, but he knows he’s just wasting the air in the cabin.

Bucky does close his eyes, but shakes his head.

“I’ll take that. Swap out halfway?” Clint asks to Natasha, who nods in promise.

“Design flaw, beds. Second time they would have been handy,” Tony notes, as Clint lays down across them on the side of uninterrupted seats. “I’ll add it to the two-point-o. Luckily, somehow the two largest, double sized men are still only taking up the space of one."

"Lucky you're short," Clint says at the same time Bucky snorts again, “Now, of all times, you actually want to sleep.”

“I'll take your pointy toys away, Clint. And like you can talk, Bucky. I’m fairly certain that’s where I learnt it from. But yeah, I’ve got nothing else to keep me busy. I can stay away and talk, if you’d prefer?” Tony says as he lays down, using a winter jacket as a makeshift pillow.

It should be funny, that Bucky, Natasha and Steve all chime “Nope,” at the same time and intonation, but the amusement quickly vanishes from the air.

“You should rest also, Steve,” Natasha murmurs quietly from the cockpit, and though he doesn’t need it as he slept on the way over for possibly longer than he ever had in a bed, he nods, and like Bucky, closes his eyes.

Steve waits for hours for the warmth beside him to disappear, to remove itself from pressing in so close like they’re one super super soldier, but it doesn’t come, and eventually, apparently halfway through, he peers his eyes open a crack to see Clint and Natasha swapping. He doesn’t hide the frown at the changeover, he had half assumed, had expected, it was a misdirection to give her and Bucky some privacy, but Bucky doesn’t shift as she simply takes over the bench and lies down herself, eyes immediately closed. It must be a trained skill, as she slips into unconsciousness immediately, and he knows she could force herself out of it just as quickly.

Sleep doesn’t rid Natasha of her mask, her guardedness, and he feels the same of sorrow for her as he does for Bucky, though it doesn’t threaten to overwhelm him. But it's still there. 

Tony is also still sleeping, but he knows Bucky is not, it seems he’s doing the same as Steve before, sitting upright with even breathing and eyes closed, so Steve returns to the same. Steve distracts himself, attempts to calm himself from the change of pilot by focusing entirely on appreciating Bucky’s presence while he can, this close and conscious. As good, as aware as Bucky is, Steve trusts his gut that Bucky isn’t reading his mind, so he doesn’t feel too bad about doing this next to him.

He wonders what Bucky’s thinking about.

He knows it’s not this.

Because this, what's racing through Steve’s mind is that he wants nothing more than to listen to Bucky’s level breathing, his steady heartbeat, for the rest of his life. He’s never tried, can hardly carry a tune, but he’d write symphonies of it given the chance, and still know any sound violins and trumpets and operatic vocals could conjure would not do the rhythmic evidence of Bucky’s life justice.

Searching for, and centering himself to Bucky’s heart and lungs is not a new method. It’s a tried and true method, has plagued his mind even when he was calm like an urge to sketch since he pulled Bucky out of a burning Krausberg and realised that he could actually hear, let alone hear the intimacy of Bucky. Nor is the preparation, the adrenaline, the simplistic fight or flight mode, those had been present his whole life. Pre-war, Steve dealt with it mostly by ignoring it, or worrying about anything else, and during, there were blue card discharges for even the thought of it, so Steve never mentioned shared beds for warmth in Brooklyn, and neither did Bucky. And the need, for Bucky to huddle around him at the first sign of snow, rub extremities in cold or his back with asthma, disappeared with the serum, so nothing in Europe, no fight mode entertained more contact than a quick, relieved hug, or a clapped shoulder.

So this close proximity coupled with Bucky’s unrelenting vital signs and Steve’s epinephrine is new, and it's not calmed him like he hoped. In fact, Bucky's done the opposite, every part of Steve is alert, and ready, emotions and senses he didn’t know he had are heightened, therefore the touch is so much more than what he feels in the relaxed state sleeping just before sleep. He's grateful to never have suffered this combination before in any part of his life, because this is-.

Steve feels like he’s on fire, flames licking his body and his very soul, and Tony’s Nomex material is doing nothing to stop the burn.

There’s something slightly pleasant about it, it’s infinitely better than death by freezing water, but it’s paralytic all the same. The cold gave him sleep, but if this blaze gave him another 66 years of immobile awareness, somehow, he might not mind.

Actually –

There’s a small, embarrassing wonderment that this might be enough, just sitting next to Bucky, to cause him discomfort, and humiliation, this suit is _really_ tight in a way that the Commando’s one wasn’t, but just as the fear enters his head it’s chased away with the knowledge of why they’re here, and where they’re going.

Where they are.

The plane has landed, and the raging fire is doused.

It’s a terrible, stale silence on the jet, which is thankfully filled by Tony’s obvious, but welcome theatrics with waking up.

Steve is sure he’d been awake the whole time, missed no planning, but somehow, everyone moves in fluid motions around him, and he’s weighted to his seat by a sudden sharp pang for his own team which used to respond the same to his non-verbal cues. Who just knew, knew _him_ , and what he stood for. Not a second-hand story, or an inaccurate history book. 

These new people are swell, but they’re not his men.

He pushes that grief, the one he’s yet to examine down, lest Bucky see and compound it, but Bucky appears to be moving on a sort of autopilot, startling different from everyone else’s. It’s, dawning on Steve with the cold fingers of dread, the calm Bucky in their totaled SUV on 6th Avenue.

Which he now knows to be a manifestation of the Winter Soldier.

Steve can see Bucky fading away each moment he scans his face, subsequently feeling like an idiot and disgusted by guilt for letting Bucky be so silent, so alone in his head for the whole trip from India to now, but he still thinks there’s a chance. He doesn’t reach for the face like Natasha, just Bucky’s ungloved, flesh hand, and pulls gently on the fingers.

Bucky jumps, as if Steve’s hand is still hot from the flames which were Bucky’s own fault, but the blank disappears, the eyes slightly wide and wild, but only Bucky.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Don’t do that.”

Natasha observes the interaction with a small frown, but Steve can’t discern it and she makes no comment so he decides it’s not critical for the moment.

“Last chance, Buck. Sure you don’t want to sit this one out?”

“What’s the password, Tony?"

“Uh, password1, no capitals?” Tony falters. Clint and Natasha laugh a little, Steve thinks maybe nervously, but unwilling to miss the opportunity while there still is one. “Hey, hold up,” Tony cuts in as the weapons munition folds down again and the actions from earlier are repeated. “How would _you_ even know what the password is?”

“I lost 240% of my memories Tony, not all of them,” Bucky replies grimly.

There’s no laugh for that comment, and no one says anything when Bucky grabs two extra knives, his own handguns and swaps his rifle for a much larger, undoubtedly much more powerful model, checking it three times for rounds. They all politely look away by the time he adds what Steve assumes to be grenades, or at the very least, explosives.

From the front of the ship, either some sort of radar from the jet or his Iron Man suit, Tony declares, “No friendlies, no not friendlies, not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. All clear.”

“We’ll scout anyway,” Bucky says gruffly, and Steve wonders if he did him a disservice, from pulling him back from a place where, despite the lack of _Bucky_ , he seemed so unaffected by all of this. 

Tony looks unsurprised by the answer. “Alright, Buck and Nat on foot, I’ll take air, Clint and Steve, you two man the jet.”

Steve knows exactly what they’re doing, and why, and it invokes instant fury. Bucky seemed to know how he would react, and cuts in before Steve can argue exactly _why_ he doesn’t need to be left out of this any more than he has already been.

“Steve, just,” Bucky struggles, mouth tight and no eye contact, “don’t.” And then, the jerk, turns Steve’s own breakfast trick on him and pleads with a small, “Please.”

It works enough, his heart sufficiently battered, but Clint attempts to save his dignity with a well-reasoned, “It would be pretty poor form on us if we led you here just to be captured by Hydra within like, 30 seconds. It’ll only take a few minutes to do a once over, and this things just as much air support as Tony if we need it.”

Steve ignores him.

The three sneak down the open ramp, into a blizzard of white, while Steve quietly fumes on the plane, Clint checking the controls just like Bucky had on the similar scout trip in India. He sighs again, there’s nothing he can see further than five feet in front of him anyway, and moves to sit next to Clint.

Clint, unlike Bucky, is more inclined to talk during their shift, and he blocks their mics for this discussion.

“Forget boyband, we’re a family, you know. Tony and Nat are the rowdy kids, though Nat’s somehow also the mother, Bucky’s the weird uncle that comes and goes and I guess I’m the same. Mismatch, but it works. I haven't figured you in yet, but it's early days.”

Steve just grunts.

“You and me are alright, yeah?” Clint says in response. 

“Should we not be?”

“Tony said you might be a bit sore on, uh, the first impression I made. Yelling at him for the hole in Natasha.”

Sore is - actually a fairly accurate word for it. Steve’s opinion of not being immediately endeared to Clint hadn’t changed much since then, he’d just had more pressing things to worry about, and understood that he was apparently valuable to the team, and helping Bucky.

His lack of answer provides an answer, the one Clint expected. He gives Steve a once over and says, “I thought so. Doesn’t bother me, but it might Bucky. We’re closer than that display made it seem, and that’s how me and Bucky communicate, because there’s a part of us that just… Understands each other. Bucky pulled me from a bad place, talks me down from my own ledge half the days. Ah,” he fumbles a little at his choice of words, but Steve just gestures to go on. “We both know, sometimes, when you’re in that deep, the only thing that will cut hard enough to help you think straight is the worst kind of truth. Like ice water, nothing else wakes you up quite like it.”

“I’m not sure I agree.”

“You and Natasha both. She prefers breathing, but sometimes you don’t got time for that. Pain is a quick smart, we’ve both okay’d each other on it. We say it, we sort it, we move on, and in the end, usually everyone gets to go home to a home cooked meal.” Clint appears impassive as he speaks, it’s not like he’s pleading a case, or trying to convince Steve, he’s simply stating how it is. But he hits the mark when he adds, “He’s real shitty at communicating in precious situations, kinda at all, really, and it’s gotten us in trouble before. I’ll stomp on a few repairable feelings before I feel bad about possibly stopping an avoidable death. For obvious reasons, sure, but mostly that the fall out is worse for Bucky when people die on his watch. We’ve been nettling each other for years, and neither of us have said anything yet that’ll do permanent damage, though I’ve definitely got an arsenal of things I hope you’ll never have to hear and I never have to say. And I have nightmares just thinking about what he can say to me.”

There’s a darkness to his tone, so Steve poaches, though he’s not sure it’s his right to ask, “Russia?” Or rather, Siberia.

“No. I was in the Circus,” Clint says grimly.

“I don’t understand.”

“Pray you never do. But I, like Bucky, found a way to turn my curse into a blessing. And a career.”

“So you’re with S.H.I.E.L.D too?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. Bucky got me out of a bit of trouble, ergo saw more than I ever wanted him to see of me, but he didn’t judge, just offered me a better place to be, and that was S.H.I.E.L.D. Funny enough, I had the chance to do the same with Nat. She ended up bringing Tony in, pretty recently, much to Bucky’s dismay, but he was too big to not have in our corner.” 

Steve thinks it through, and shakes his head with a sigh. Clint seems surprised. “What?”

“With that pattern, it would make sense that Tony tried to talk to me.”

“Already?” Clint seems genuinely surprised.

“Not really like that, I guess. He told me to run the other way,” Steve admits.

“Smart guy,” Clint muses. “You should take him up on it, unlike Bucky every million and other time Tony suggests it. Says he won’t do that to Peggy.”

“What do you mean?” Steve hates it, but its an awful sense, a foreboding, that he’s very much not going to like what comes next. Possibly more so than he doesn’t like anything about this situation already.

“Solid as they’ve been, it is an intelligence agency. Bound to go corrupt, like all the rest, high on power and secrets no one should have access to. They’ll sell for a pretty penny to the right person; it only takes one to cause a crack in the entire system. The idea alone of Bucky keeps every person in S.H.I.E.L.D in line with fear, let alone when he actually does, I suppose you could call it, inspections or audits. He won’t let anyone disrespect her like that.”

“I still don’t understand,” Steve settles on, and the feeling of dread grows, tendrils up his spine, tickling his mind. "I know he's close with Peggy, and she worked there, but.."

“Peggy founded S.H.I.E.L.D. The whole thing, it’s her name, her legacy.”

Steve stills. The creeping fingers have touched the spot in his brain that render him immobile, rooted to the spot, but not immune to the return of his fury, this more than what he felt moments ago at being left behind. “What?”

Clint looks surprised that at the sharp tone, the snap. “Aw, crap,” he groans. “Sorry?” He looks it, and says again for good measure, “Sorry if that was important.”

The word doesn’t begin to cover it. Steve presses the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, only just shy of snapping the bones himself, and tries to breath out the anger, the frustration, but he knows it’s in vain. “Go on,” he grits, as Clint sits awkwardly beside him, in indecision, not on whether to comfort, but to continue.

“I mean, that’s the only reason he’s let off so easy in the first place,” Clint continues.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Steve seethes.

“No, it wasn’t,” Clint agrees. He adds grimly, “But it was his fault that he didn’t tell the SSR what actually happened to him the first time, and there’s no contention that was an intentional choice. Maybe a lot of people, hundreds of thousands wouldn’t have died, countries more stable, wars avoided, maybe he would have avoided those twenty-some years, we don’t know, but the bureaucrats and politicians with their sticky hands in S.H.I.E.L.D’s business always need someone to blame who isn’t themselves. Those with the information on him certainly have mentioned it at a point or two. Or 78, last count.”

“Or maybe they would have locked him in their own lab and mass produced their own army, like Tony said, and the people who would have died would have been argued as enemies of America.”

Clint studies him. “It’s not me with the problem here, Steve,” he says slowly. “You know Politicians are just devils in disguise. Unlike Tony, I think it’s good Bukcy stays with S.H.I.E.L.D. I know Natasha agrees with both me and Tony. She just knows she'll adapt to whatever he chooses, to best suit him.”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not exactly forgiven, or history just yet. Every few years they come after him, his past, and honestly, his track record and glowing recommendation from S.H.I.E.L.D gives him a sort of immunity. I’m worried if he stops, he’ll lose that protection. And he wouldn’t fight it, whatever sentence they decide on, because even though he hides it, and hides it well, I know there’s still a big part that thinks he'll deserve everything they could think of, even the things worse than Hydra.”

“Fucking hell,” he sighs, still head supported by two fingers.

Steve is here right now, is willing, because he wants this to stop, to be over for Bucky, to finally find peace and rest, something he knows Bucky hasn’t had in close to 70 years. 70 years that should have been unendurable by a mere human, and even with the serum, Steve is not sure he himself would have survived. Looking towards Steve's own future, he’s not sure how much he will be able to, like this. 

Because it will never truly be over. Because there will always be someone looking to destroy Bucky, to tear him apart in ways Steve can’t even begin to imagine. If not Hydra, then America, and if not America, then Bucky himself. And, he doesn’t doubt, this whole time, it has been Bucky causing the most damage.

And there’s nothing he can do.

Because he wasn’t _there_.

His fury only grows when the three return to the ship, stating the all clear. Though Bucky, still tense and alert, weary and resigned, and with relief no trace of the Winter Solider, Steve can see where the innocence should lie, where his history should be, where laugh lines should frame his face.

He looks at Steve, confused by the sudden anger, then to Clint, but Steve stalks forward and grabs his own extra ammunition. And another handgun, for good measure.

Steve is fucking pissed.

At Peggy, at Bucky, at anyone who’d ever even looked at Bucky the wrong way, and at himself. Hitting something, and hopefully someone, won’t solve it, but it sure as hell will feel good. And he’ll probably get in trouble for blowing up a building in New York or D.C, so this is his only chance.

His anger somewhat ebbs outside the jet where, it’s, though expected, much colder than Steve knew could exist, even with the plane. He doesn’t know much about cryostasis, but from his own experience, it’s possible Hydra just stuck Bucky outside every time they no longer needed him, like a seasonal assassin. He understands the blanket piles now, and now that Steve’s got his own bank account, vows to buy every blanket that ever exists. And then learn to knit when the supply runs out.

Bucky catches the shiver and looks guilty for it, and angry, as if the weather is somehow his own fault. “How far from Oymyakon are we?”

“No,” is the reply Natasha gives, and it further aggrieves Bucky.

It doesn’t matter anyway, there’s too much wind, howling around his ears, blowing snow into his ears, to hear anything further or offer more conversation. Heads down, but weapons ready, the push against the gales and trudge forward.

It’s not far, Steve has an almost thought that they won’t be able to find their way back, but even in this sight Natasha and Bucky have found their way to this ominous black shape, so he places his trust in that.

It’s a bunker, barely bigger than the inside of the jet, but that’s because it’s just a front, Steve soon finds out, as Bucky hits a code the he apparently does know, to lead them lower. The cold follows them where the wind does not, and it’s so freezing that its burning hot, and not the same heat that Bucky offered. Down, down, down, in a rattling, prison barred elevator, with fire in his veins, Steve thinks he’s finally descending into hell. It’s where he’d always thought he’d end up, but not with so many other good people, and it seems to take an eternity to even reach the pits, the dread threatening to end Steve all over again.

Bucky looks the same. Worse, even.

And yet, Steve doesn’t think this elevator is the small space Bucky was talking about not being fond of.

They’re all sharp, guns and shields raised, as the elevator comes to a stop, Steve's anger now overshadowed by the fear of exactly what they'll find ahead. Bucky pulls the rusted door open with a grima inducing screech, but stops, foot halfway out the space.

“Buck?” Tony tries, when he hasn’t moved for a few seconds, besides from the tightening on his hands around his rifle.

“I’m thinking,” he snaps.

“Well, don’t,” Tony tries gently, and incredibly, it works.

Shoulders Steve didn’t even see creep up lower only slightly, squeezing fingers turn to tapping instead, and the frozen feet start walking, straight, then left, then straight again.

Bucky leads the way through a warren, a maze, clearing each corner and unseen door from the front, Natasha from behind. The further in they go, the more asthmatic Steve feels, the less air there is. They pass empty offices with shattered glass windows, deserted hallways with broken bricks, derelict prison rooms and cells with metal walls. Some of the doors are open, and as Tony’s palm light flashes into them, Steve can see shackles and straps, parts of walls that are darker than others, and the only light from the room a reflection off silver tables and discarded trays of, clearly used, medical instruments.

Steve stops looking after that. He thinks Tony does too.

It doesn't stop the smell, though.

Bucky strides on determined, his clears harsher, breaths sharper, and it’s impossible to tell through the face place of the Iron Man suit, but he can see that Natasha is cataloguing everything she can, while Clint’s face portrays every emotion between pure horror and disgust.

They follow further, down, down, stairs this time, and Steve knows despite Tony’s confidence there’s no one here, if they do get attacked, one of Steve’s disadvantages is going to be his lack of situational awareness.

Then again, there’s no force in this Earth that will keep him more than a foot away from Bucky right now, so he just hopes the other three have kept track of their path so far.

Steve demonstrates his inability to separate, or perhaps the other way around, when Bucky stops so suddenly that Steve catches the back of his heel while pulling himself up short from running into Bucky further. Bucky flinches a little, he thinks his breath must have caught the exposed back of his neck, as Steve is half an inch from getting a mouthful of small hair bun.

Bucky breathes out, a shaky breath, and opens the door.

Tony’s suit blasts lights to hover in the air, shining light around the room, and it’s then Steve is hit with the weight of thousands of tonnes of dirt, burying him alive, and his tragic wish from the rooftop is brought into fruition, because Bucky is right beside him. Though he now understands Bucky has been buried, and for quite some time now.

Because Bucky truly meant home, sweet home.

Besides from the circularity of the room, Steve has an eerie and repulsive sense of similarity to the downstairs area he’d spent the past two weeks in, and from the noise that comes from Tony, it might not be his mind fabricating the resemblance.

As they enter, he mentally walks himself through Bucky’s house while physically in Siberia. From the door to this area, Steve can place himself at the garage entrance to the house. There are no walls in this space, and like the lounge area, the front half of the room before him is set lower than the rest. Where Steve enjoys his books on the couch half a world away, here sits a large, menacing and singular chair. Chair, is not the word for it, throne perhaps, complete with a crown, shiny metal and black. It's this, more than anything, that scares Steve about the scene. He's not known a crown to sit anywhere other than the head. Unlike a throne, there’s no authoritative air emanating from it, no leadership. Somehow, this inanimate object screams nothing but submission. Ripping his eyes tear from there, replacing the TV Steve knows to display only beautiful Disney, is a series of large computer screens, faced away so they’d be a poor placement for entertainment. Here, perhaps more so for monitoring, perhaps what happens in the chair.

Steve has an idea of what that is. 

He can almost hear the electricity coming from it, not a slight hum, but a cackling that burns his ears and hairs and taste buds and even his stomach lining. If he can, there’s no doubt Bucky also can, _could_ , and Steve knows without knowing that it’s not even on.

This time, it’s not taking memories, but bringing them back. Steve isn’t sure what is worse.

Natasha presses a switch, and with a whir, and a sudden and violent reaction from the unsuspecting, bright lights illuminate the entire room so that Steve can inspect this special sort of nightmare further.

Even the fucking spotlight over the chair sits in close enough approximation to Bucky’s lounge lights that, at the very least, if Steve doesn’t get to destroy anything here, he’s going to knock down Bucky’s house the second they get back, even if it means building a new one for him from scratch.

Where Steve could place the kitchen is less of a cooking area, but still with a long island, perhaps a medical bench or a work station, Steve neither knows nor cares. The stairs that should take them up to the top floor instead lead, winding, to where he situates the majority of Bucky’s bedroom to be, is a large, seemingly reinforced, viewing room, a thick and reinforced glass panel for convenience.

His eyes are drawn further upwards, following the winding stairs, up and up seemingly to the ground they just came but lined along them a few floors above are six large _chambers_ , is the only word Steve can think of. Large tubes, glowing insides, and he’s so, so glad, that Bucky’s house doesn’t come with these.

It’s not identical, that’s for sure, but it’s enough. And from the slow understanding on Bucky’s face, the heartbreak and repulsion, Steve’s not sure even he knew about it, until now.

Natasha murmurs something in Russian, Bucky's head jerks and grips at his rifle tighter, but nods. She does something else, and the chambers start to lower.

"Fuck, crazy lady, a bit of warning would be nice," Tony hisses, raising both hands, and Clint draws his bow, the taut string still nowhere near as tense as Bucky.

"Relax," she drawls, appearing just so. "This is all that it is," and through the corner of his eye, he can see she's holding a small book.

"Hydra comes with handguides, who knew?" Clint asks, fingers still brushing his cheek as he waits, prepared.

Steve doesn't care if they're full or empty, or what's even in them, because whatever it is, is clearly making Bucky uncomfortable. Or more so. If uncomfortable is even the word he wants to use. "Cover me," Steve mumbles as the tanks near the ground, and Bucky grunts, a flash of fear, until he realises Steve is going no further than a foot in front of him, shield up, but crouched so Bucky has enough sigh over his shoulder.

They reach the ground with a unsatisfying clunk, and no one moves, not the team, and not anything as a result of the chamber's motions. There's nothing more needed from the book, apparently, because Natasha slides it into her jacket and moves forward to inspect the nearest, to Steve's 10 o'clock. Now that they're lowered, he can see a series of interconnected wires and tubes entering the chamber, surrounded by tanks. Natasha reaches for the bottom panel, and it's lit from the inside. It's almost cloudy on the inside, the light a warm yellow, but it settles, and his eyes adjust.

The tubes he noted are in the veins, in the stomach, the wires to the head, of a masked, no _muzzled_ , Steve swallows down, figure. He stays ready, but the eyes remain closed, there's no signs of movement. 

And there won't be, because as the scene settles further, Steve can see the perfect execution hole in it's head.

"Heck," Clint says, and lowers his bow. "I for one, and not too unhappy about this particular outcome."

"Not quite," Tony says, and moves forward, to look closer, as Natasha turns on the light of the next chamber. Clint follows, but Steve stays where he is, and thankfully, so does Bucky.

He holds his breath, but its the same for this chamber, another bullet hole.

Clint turns on the light of the third, and Steve sucks in a breath. There's still a dead Soldier, but this time, it's a woman.

His eyes shift to Natasha, he knows Bucky's do the same, but she just tilts her head and inspects the figure curiously. If she feels anything about it, if this is anything she knows, this is the most impressed Steve has been with her skills of deception.

For the fourth chamber, he has no air to suck in, rather its vacuumed from his lungs.

It's empty.

"Well. You know what they say about assume, but I'd like to say that's maybe Mr Newby's," Clint says as he walks closer. For a horrible second Steve thinks he's going to step into it, but he seems to think better of it at the last moment, and instead crouches to look at the bottom, at the discarded tubes.

"Indeed, we should not be so heedless," Natasha muses.

The fifth chamber, is also empty, and Tony comments, "Mr Punchy?"

Steve already knows the sixth will be empty, and no one offers a comment of who they assume could have occupied it, if ever.

"This is good." 

“How, Tony? How?” It’s Clint, but Steve somewhat agrees.

But Natasha tilts her head in acknowledgement. “It is useful. One is much easier to deal with than five. If this is all there is.” Clint groans, her voice grows hard as she says, "Optimism is carelessness, Clint.” 

As the three head away from the chambers, Steve turns to face Bucky. Though nothing has explicitly changed about his features, nor his behavior, he looks positively deranged, the sort of shellshock Steve expects from soldiers, not the nuances he’s seen from Bucky’s PTSD.

More than wanting to blow something up, he has a feeling Tony will oblige him later, he wants to get Bucky out of here.

Steve definitely, truly regrets stealing Bucky's dissociation from him, regardless of what it stemmed from. Because Bucky, Bucky, is disappearing anyway the longer they're down here, and Steve thinks compared the the impartial attitude of the residue of the Soldier, Bucky's feeling every ounce, and more, of this. And will possibly use it as a further punishment later should he convince himself, if it's hurtful enough. 

“Alright then, let’s see who opened the freezer door and defrosted all that old meat,” Tony mutters as he heads towards the computers.

“Tracers,” Bucky mutters suddenly, and Steve stops himself from startling. He’s barely capable of speech right now, it’s amazing that Bucky is.

“How long?”

“Dunno. Depends where we are,” he glares at Natasha. “Could be five minutes.”

“Internal backup options?”

“Possible. Probable,” Bucky corrects.

“Alright then.” Tony says, and stares at the computer, lips pursed in thought. 

“Lets just take them all?” Clint suggest, but even to Steve, that doesn’t seem like the best option. 

“How fast’s your suit?” Steve summons everything he has to speak true and clear. 

“Fast enough,” Tony says cautiously.

Though Steve can see the dawning of his own idea in Tony’s eyes, he continues, “And you have your, your, Jarvis, with you? A way to get the information out?”

“Always.”

Steve nods. Bucky's precarious state right now be damned, actually this is for that sake, it’s the tactic he used on Steve, twice now. He takes control. “Natasha, see if the book has anything on how to open the roof, and how much time we’d have if we turn those computers on. Bucky, whatever you know about them, tell Tony now. The rest of us will head to the top, open the roof from there if we have to or blow it up. Nat and Clint can cover the entrance, and Bucky and I will provide air support from the jet to any unfriendlies. Once we’re in the jet, Tony, you turn the computers on, get what you can in 4 minutes, and head out.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Bucky hisses from beside him, but Steve doesn’t turn.

“You said 5 minutes,” he says, staring intently at Tony, from whom he’s asking the most, but there’s no need. Tony’s already committed, nodding in confirmation, and Steve knows without a doubt there’s more than the suit can do than Steve’s half cooked plan has allowed for.

“I said I had no idea,” Bucky hisses again.

“You insult my intelligence, Buck. You think Jarvis hasn’t helped me out of worse? Plus, if anything goes badly, I’m sure you’ll avenge me, or what not.”

Steve takes back his confidence in Tony as he groans inwardly at the last comment.

“Let me do it,” Bucky tries again, but Tony looks comically offended.

“No way. This thing is designed for my perky ass, and mine only.”

“Right, sorted," Steve commands.

“Not sorted,” Bucky snaps, but Steve starts walking.

He doesn’t stop until he nears the doorway. Only his head turns, just enough Bucky can see the side of his mouth, in case he can’t hear the low words he’s about to say, only for him. “Bucky, I gotta get outta here,” he pleads. It’s not exactly a lie, just happens to be a kindness that covers them both, and it’s barely seconds later that he appears next to Steve, wildly and wide eyed.

They make it out without fanfare, Bucky’s composure by now well and truly shot, because he doesn't even notice when Natasha and Clint snuck away somewhere in the middle floors to ‘find more sources of intel’. He trusts them with this, to take care of themselves, as they seem to trust him to lead Bucky away from it.

Once on the jet, Steve reaches an arm out. “Buck,” he starts, but his arm gets swatted away, perhaps with a little more force than intended because it’s accompanied with a slight sting.

Bucky looks at it, and realising his mistake shocks him into silence for a second, before he gulps and says, “This was your idea. Start your look out.”

“Buck,” he starts again. “Tony hasn’t begun-”

“Time coulda started the second we opened that bunker door. Or flew into the airspace, or-”

It’s Steve’s turn to cut him off, and he continues loudly over Bucky’s grumbling rambles. “Natasha and Clint are as good as look outs as you’ll ever get, Tony has more power in his suit that any of your rifles could do, and we’ve got a jet which isn’t displaying anything on the radar. No heat signatures, no planes.”

“No me if you keep on talking instead of doing.”

“You’re not going to be able to look out for anyone if you don’t center yourself first.”

“I’m trying,” Bucky insists, and Steve can see the panic, the desperation in his eyes, his hands trembling as he fumbles at the buttons at the front of the plane.

“I know," Steve says softly, gently. "I know you are. Can you let me help you?”

Bucky keeps breathing shallowly, loud but not full mouthfuls of air while staring at the controls, then nods, still looking away.

Steve walks over and, though he’s not quite sure how, attempts to give the best damn hug of his entire life. But that feels wrong, and forced, so he just settles into what he knows. He makes sure not to obstruct Bucky’s view of the control panel, the alarms that haven’t yet gone off, but he knows Bucky is fearful of.

Steve holds him, not tight but with reassurance, stealing Natasha's trick of breathing and not Clint's harsh words, until he can feel the fluttering heartbeat against his chest calm a little, as much as he can hope for in this situation. One arm still around Bucky’s shoulders, he brings the other up to turn his mic back on, and says, “Natasha, you in position?”

“Clint and I are ready,” comes the clear reply.

“Uh, yeah. Just so you know, I started like, the second you guys left. Jarvis didn’t find anything hairy in the alerts so I’ve just kept it running. We’re at 11 minutes and counting, I’m almost done here.”

“Shit,” Steve swears suddenly, and Bucky scrambles away from him, for the controls, turning it on and preparing it in what, Steve doesn’t know much about planes, but what he knows is much quicker than should be functional.

“Relax,” Tony says in the same drawl as Natasha before. “Hydra is good, but Jarvis is better. I’d have told you if I tripped anything. I’m actually, nope, oh wait, yup, I’m done riiiight. About. Now. I'm happy with what I've got, but I think it might be a good idea to keep this place standing for another day so we, minus Buckaroo, can come back and properly clean it out."

"Just get back here first," Steve grits, annoyed that he's lost Bucky's almost calm. 

Steve gives his most disappointed look when Tony enters, along with a glare that says prepare for a talking to later, but Tony just shrugs him off. “Sorry, Pops-icle.”

“Don’t say sorry to him, say sorry to Bucky’s cardiologist,” Clint mutters as him and Natasha close the ramp behind them.

“And that would be me. Me and Cho. And Bucky owes Cho his own sorries, so all round, we’re square. Out,” Tony bosses to Bucky on the controls, but Bucky ignores him, his jaw set, and eyes ahead. “C’mon, Buck. Nat already called dibs. Scowl at her about it, if you really must.”

The pretense is unnecessary, but Steve is grateful for the result, that there's a solution that suits both he and Bucky, undoubtedly the most compromised, at the same time. There was nothing wrong with Clint’s flying, but he is partial to Natasha, and more partial to Bucky being next to him, especially like this.

It’s definitely deliberate this time, that Steve sits too close to Bucky, who’s just glaring ahead. Its menacing, but still the madness from in the bunker, so Steve starts to clip the seatbelt for him, already steadier himself from the light touch. 

“In case the urge to throttle Tony doesn’t pass. Got eight hours, to decide to hit him," Bucky spits as he rejects Steve's help. 

“I’m sure his suit could handle even your left arm. You’d be better off throwing him out the plane,” Steve offers.

“Suit can fly,” Bucky counters, his voice gravel with anger. Steve's glad he's speaking at all. 

“Maybe just steal his pomade when we get back, that'll show him,” and it earns him a snort. Perhaps one from a charging rhinoceros, but a snort none the less.

Steve gets a huff of air, a happier sounding one, when in response to Tony’s, “Gotta say, when I said I’d keep you entertained on Monday, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he replies, “Golly gee, Tony, thanks for clearing that up. I wouldn’t of thought.”

“Alright,” Tony frowns. “If you’re going to pick on me, we can see how well the two of you can fly without a plane.”

His response is dangerous, where it’ll either earn him a complete Allied win or put him in the same dark books as Tony. Steve’s always been all or nothing, so without thought, he plays his whole hand. But here’s the other thing - he’s always been a cheater, though he prefers the term opportunist, so as he does, Steve slips his hand in between them, where he can feel Bucky’s own, and the back of their hands press once again together. Bucky’s hands are slightly splayed, so Steve’s fit into the spaces they create as he shrugs and says casually, “We’ve both tried death by heights. Didn’t really seem to stick.”

Clint lets out a single hoot at this, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky’s mouth soften almost out of his scowl, eyes less dark.

“Alright, Sass Rogers. How to you feel about walking then. Say, back to America?”

Steve shrugs. “I once walked to Austria.”

“The hell you did! My dad gave you a ride. In a plane. Like this one. Very much like this one, in fact.”

“Can’t recall that.”

“I- yes!” Tony splutters. “It’s in all the history books! He said you got all upset about him asking a certain best Peggy Carter about a quick fondue.”

“Tony," Steve says innocently. "Fondue is just cheese and bread. Why would that upset me?”

“Oh, mother of anything holy,” Tony exclaims, throwing his hands up and stepping out of his suit. “The pair of you,” he says, and Steve’s relieved to see Bucky no longer scowling, at the interaction.

He throws Tony a grateful look for playing along, but smiles himself when he realises Tony was doing nothing of the sort, and grumbles, “Don’t even look at me right now, Rogers. Can’t believe I’m actually trying to save your ass right about now.”

“You seem to talk about his ass a lot, Tony," Bucky points out. 

“Oh, buck off, Fucky,” Tony shoots back.

It's enough to garner a small series of noises from Bucky that Steve will take as a laugh, or at the very least not murder or sobbing, so he presses more of his body into Bucky. Steve still feels helpless, not only that he truly, fully, understands that this Soldier is not the biggest hurdle they'll have to over come, and that in itself is monumental, but also that this entire trip was seemingly a waste. It's taken more out of him than he could imagine, this almost waste of two missions now, with his constant feelings of the complete frustration and fear, and there's nothing he can do in this enclosed space but decide not to waste a single moment of this second chance of both his and Bucky's life that they've been given.

Somewhere, no longer over the icy wasteland of Siberia, far from what he crashed into, they must pass over civilisation, and in the dark sky, the lives below glow with warm yellow lights, like fireflies, or perhaps if the stars were upside down.

It is a nice sight. Between that, the reassuring drum of the planes engines and Bucky's heart, and the warmth of his weight, though he doesn’t mean to, Steve falls into a dreamless sleep.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s spent the past two weeks wishing Bucky to look like this, fearing his loneliness, wanting him to be happy, relaxed, at ease, but now that he’s seeing it with someone else, what it looks like fully lit not just by the moon or super soldier eyesight, he wants it to stop.

Steve’s head hangs leaden and awkward against his chest as he comes into consciousness. Even with the serum, the ache from sleeping at that angle is going to take a minute or two to fade, he knows from sparsely snatched sleep in Europe, so Steve rolls his head back and sighs once deeply, waiting with his eyes closed. As he brings his hand up to rub, more out of habit than expectation of a cure, he brushes against something. Someone.

Bucky.

And only Bucky, as he opens his eyes to an otherwise empty jet. There’s no movement at all, no noise from the plane, and with now an afternoon sun instead of endless black, or white, Steve assumes to be back in New York.

Bucky greets him with half lidded eyes and, “I was going to carry you out, but I reckon you’ve got enough dirt on me that you’d get me back tenfold.”

“How long have I been out?” Steve rubs at his eyes in another pointless effort to wake easier.

“Few hours, but we only landed half an hour ago. Everyone wanted showers and Tony’s getting dinner sorted.”

"Thanks for waiting." Bucky just shrugs. Accepting the water that he’s handed, Steve asks quietly, looking at the bottle rim instead of Bucky, “Are you alright?”

“I-,” he huffs out and chews on some word and then briefly, his cheek, before settling with, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I’m not saying it like that, I’m asking if you’re okay.”

Bucky takes his time, staring at where Steve is now playing with the neck of the bottle. “Yeah. It’s good to be home. Are you? Okay, I mean?”

“Just tired, I guess,” Steve replies before taking a drink.

“Sleep okay?”

“I think it's a different kind of tired.”

“I know a little something about that,” Bucky says.

 _'All knowledge can be a burden,'_ Natasha had told him in hushed tones in the dark of the night, words Steve hadn't truly understood, until now. The comfort of knowing that Bucky might feel less than okay, of what the word home stands for in his mind, it's what Steve had craved among the secrets and the omissions, but it comes with the cost of, of, _this_. The _everything_ he felt on that rooftop, and hasn't shaken, like the cold, just suppressed with plane rides and Siberia trips and the warm weight of Bucky seated next to him. 

They sit in silence, until Steve can't stand his own thoughts. “Did you get any sleep?” Bucky shakes his head once and looks away. “Buck,” Steve sighs. “You gotta sleep.”

“It’s fine, I can go longer. I don’t need much.”

“You still need some.” Bucky’ jaw clenches, so Steve adds the tried and true method of involving his own needs into Bucky’s self care. “Can’t have you watching my six with both eyes half shut.”

"Won't need to watch your six no more because you're not getting involved in anything else," he retaliates, tone brittle and egging.

He doesn’t want to argue about this; serum or no serum, Bucky’s a snappy tired. Not for the first time, and assuredly not the last, Steve has the thought that he wants none of this. “Just, try, tonight, will you?”

“What?” Bucky mocks, flaring of the incoming temper. “Just make myself fall asleep? Even I’m not that good.”

“I think that you are. At least, you could be. Natasha seems to be able, so ask her. Or I’ll suffocate you with a pillow just long enough to knock you out for a bit. Your choice.” Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but Steve ploughs on. “You haven’t slept since we got here, Sunday, actually I’m not even sure if you did then, and it’s now - what’s today?”

“Wednesday.” Steve frowns, and Bucky continues with, “6th April. 2011, but you seem to know that bit.”

"April," he breaths, all admonishes towards Bucky, all thoughts of anything else, poof, gone. It's the simplest of things, yet hits in exactly the sort of spot in his heart to make his face fall, his chest heave. "I missed your birthday,” he whispers, but that’s all, not even able to choke out a sorry.

They never had much, but they had birthdays. Like everyone else, it a celebration of another year of life ahead, and the past year lived, but for Steve, and Bucky who’d always get so much more excited for Steve’s birthday than him, it signified that _Steve_ had gotten through another year. Always one the doctors said that he wouldn't. So every 4th of July, from the very start after all the teasing that an Irish immigrants son was more American than the rest of the lot, Bucky would press a finger to his lips before leading him to the highest place possible to watch the fireworks, a cocky remark about how he planned it all for him. It was never a surprise, never any different, except 43 – even in 44, they managed to witness a firefight that Bucky whooped out was just for him.

No matter the colours in the sky that Steve could never quite capture in paint for his own birthday, he always loved Bucky's special day infinitely more. Though he could never afford fireworks and there was never any on for any other reason, he didn't care, because, like the simplest meaning, it symbolised the exact moment that Bucky was born. The moment New York allowed a bundle of pure spirit and good heartedness into it’s boroughs, that would grow up and in 13 years adopt Steve into his life, and never let him go, not even almost a century later. Never. That, and it didn't hurt the somewhat well-off Barnes' managed more than the Rogers' ever could, so the family affair that Steve was always invited to was grand, with a full cake and singing and card games and presents. Everything Bucky got, he shared with Steve, and not a word was said about it by anyone.

Even Christmas wasn't as important as birthdays, everyone celebrated Christmas, and there was a mass to go to. It was always far too cold, not enough work to afford the food they knew everyone else was enjoying, or presents he desperately wanted to buy Bucky.

“Not exactly. Missed a few, more than a few, but not this one,” Bucky shrugs. “You slept for bit more than a week at S.H.I.E.L.D. You were pretty banged up. You crashed a plane, and then drowned,” he points out, as if it’s obvious, as if Steve cares for that. “Brought you back to America to bury you on my birthday. Then we didn’t. Best present ever,” he says, but there’s something, everything, about him right now that suggests otherwise.

Steve doesn’t mean to fixate, but he is upset about this. He’d been so close, _so_ close, in a world where he probably could have given Bucky what he deserved for his birthday for the first time in his life. “It’s fine, Stevie,” Bucky sighs, and nudges him with his shoulder.

“No, it’s not.”

"Stevie, just. Don't." It's sharp, and there's the something, the everything, that suggest it's just as much of a suffering for Bucky as it is for Steve. "It's really fine. It's great, even."

“How am I ever gonna top that, then? If I’m the greatest gift you ever got?”

“I didn't go that far,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “But dunno. Don’t care. Get thinking, cause you got all the years in the world ahead for birthdays, and I’ll hold you to the catch ups.”

“I suppose resurrection again could always be my fallback, now that I know it works. Change my name to Lazarus,” Steve muses. "You can be Jesus, with that hair."

“That’s not even funny, Rogers,” Bucky growls, and playful is gone; he's gone too far, now that Tonys not the subject of cajouling. “You’re a real fucking terrible person sometimes, you know that?”

“Yet you thought I was still worth looking for after all this time?”

Bucky’s head whips to him so hard Steve recoils as if it’s a physical threat, but Bucky just blinks at him, a different sort of unreadable on his face now. It goes on, for too long, and it feels wrong, in this plane. It’s awkward. They’re never awkward, but it seems to be happening more often lately. 

"I said sometimes. Jesus Christ, Stevie," he says, licking his lips and shaking his head. His voice is so dry Steve wants to offer him water, but come to think of it, he's not even seen Bucky willingly drink water. Only coffee. "I didn't mean it like that. You're the one who joked about dying."

"You were fine with it before, is all. I don't know what's okay and what's not," he says simply, the unspoken " _because you won't tell me, unless I manhandle it out of you. Or talk to Natasha,"_ hangs between them, even more uncomfortable than the previous look. 

"I-. Can we not? Please? Just not right now."

“Fine," he says, annoyed that this is what he's woken up to, when despite the horrific conditions since India, Steve was sure he'd finally started doing what Bucky needed. That even though they were flung into the future, with bigger problems than paying rent or standing to attention, they'd started their ebb and flow, push and pull, speaking without words. "What’s dinner?” He asks as he stands, wanting to be clear of the plane, of this atmosphere, as if it’s the environment that’s causing the unease and not their persons. With unconscious thought he offers Bucky his hand to pull him up, though he’s just sitting. 

Bucky stares at it, dragging on the awkward, compounding, make the air hard to breath, still the odd expression on his face, but takes it just as Steve moves to lower it. They both let it drop once he’s up. Bucky's hand twitches, but he looks away. “Not sure. Whatever it is, it’s probably going to be weird, so prepare yourself. Come on."

It was stupid, Steve doesn’t know why he did it. Bucky was sitting on a seat, of all things, he can get himself off a seat.

He does know why.

He just hopes Bucky doesn’t.

“They’re all okay with pyjamas, if you want to,” Bucky says, just before the elevator door opens to his full apartment. The awkward dissipated slightly when Bucky planted his foot next to Steve's in the elevator, but they spoke no further until now. And it’s only at the mention of clothes that he notices Bucky is no longer in the combat gear he set out in, but rather what Steve assumes to be the undershirt. It’s thin and black, long sleeved with the left arm cuffed just on the shoulder’s edge so Steve can’t see where metal stops and skin begins, and no doubt is its own sort of armour. It clings to Bucky’s muscles; muscles Steve knows well enough from his own serum, but his don’t look like that. Because even on near 18 months of army rations and several lifetimes more exercise than he'd ever done, Steve still has the slightest layer of fat, making them round and smoothed, hiding most of his bones and organs. Not sharp like the knives Bucky carries and hides, no bones stretching the skin taut, no sunken grooves that Steve only recognises from near death's door. For all he can hear Bucky’s heart, he doesn’t think it would take much, just a nubbed fingernail length or two to reach it through Bucky’s skin. It’s not something he’d noticed, huddled close at nighttime, but it’s not something he’d _thought_ to notice, too distracted like an excited teenager by even being that close to Bucky. Not even when the day time brought concerns about Bucky’s self-inflicted starvation, did he think examine what the effects were. It's only now, in the barest of clothing that it hits Steve how _gaunt_ Bucky truly is. Steve is staring, lost in his own head, and has to bring himself back to focus on Bucky’s words; “Or anything else. Pepper got you some new stuff, should be in the top right drawer. You want first shower?”

It’s less of a selfless offer and more of a firm suggestion as Bucky walks away without waiting for the answer. Steve only falters a second, off the next towards the bed area, the right drawers, mindlessly at Bucky’s directions. Still not used to the lack of walls, his hand falters when he can see so clearly from here Bucky plonk himself down in front of the couch, too close to Natasha to be casual. Even less casual, when he curls his hand around her ankle in what is apparently an invitation that Steve has never responded appropriately to, if that’s what the crooked fingers are; she scoots over so Bucky is nestled between her shins. Natasha forces his head to rest on her knee, hands already running through his hair. She smiles down at him, soft and sad, that Bucky can’t see, but Steve can.

He looks away, swallowing down feelings of intrusion, of something else, something awful that tastes like bile and bitter, and instead opens the drawers on the left, rifling through meticulously folded clothes until his hands find what they're searching for by touch alone.

It’s not like he means to slam the drawers shut, but they do all the same, a resounding slap of wood as he heads to the bathroom. Not to shower, though he wants to cleanse himself, inside and out, till he's rubbed red raw, but just to, just to-

Sit.

It’s the increasingly familiar hitch in his breath, the hurt in his heart, the stinging in his eyes, but it’s more than a general upset and the background feeling of being displaced, it's closer to how he felt after Natasha’s explanation. It's odd that it only hits him now, he's spent three days on a plane, but he's grateful it's only now, away from the all knowing and all seeing eyes of Tony, Natasha and Clint, and even Bucky. He's not on a roof this time, and there's no need for graves, yet no other logical thought comes to him for what he can do, to stop the pain, to fix this.

The only thing he knows to fix this is Bucky, but it's also because of Bucky that he's feeling this. Not that Bucky's caused it, but the external factors, Steve himself, that have caused this _for_ Bucky.

He should be glad, grateful, that Bucky’s got his Tasha, to ground him, for company, to help what Steve obviously can't. But right now, it means that Steve doesn’t have anyone. That part's not new, he never had anyone, but he always, always, had Bucky. 

"Mr Rogers?" The voice in the roof chimes.

He doesn't even have the energy to be surprised, just manages, "Steve."

"Steve, of course. Would you like me to call on Mr Barnes for you?"

Steve shakes his head, but not sure if the voice can see him, in a bathroom, he croaks, "No." There's silence, almost a judgement, as if the roof doesn't agree, and Steve is blinded by the smallest glimmer of hope. "Actually, can you, can you call someone else for me?"

His efforts, like everything else so far, these goddam three days, and two weeks, and sixty-six years, are only failure. He asks for the only other person he knows besides God, but like his God, there’s no reply. There’s no grave this time, no need for burial, so he just perches on the edge of the tub and stares at the borrowed clothes in his hands.

Which is where Bucky finds him, he can't ascertain how long later. He knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer to open it. Steve is still fully dressed in his combat clothes, clutching at the change of clothes, but feels more than naked, vulnerable in a way he's never before, unable to hide his heart, not worn on his sleeve, but his face.

Bucky comes to sit beside him.

“I just, I asked the ceiling. To call Peggy. The lady who answered said it wasn’t a good day,” Steve says, and doesn’t bother steadying the tremor in his voice, because he knows what his face must show anyway. Rejection, hurt, frustration, a cocktail that Steve is too drunk on to name the rest of the ingredients.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky says quietly.

It’s too much to think of, too much for his head, and it drops heavy into his hands, his elbows landing sharp on his knees. It’s not any better, doesn’t help his chest, and the weight of his head pushes on his broken hands. Filled to the brim with everything else, there’s not even space in his body to feel ashamed at the tears that start to spill from his overfilled body. Bucky brings a hand up to rub his back, circles, sure and soothing, and Steve wishes it helped, he tries to focus on it, but it only makes him feel worse.

“I really am. We’ll go there first thing when we get back. Every day, even. Pegs doesn’t normally have too many days in a row.”

 _‘Pegs’_. A familiarity between the two that Steve never saw. Was never a part of. Was borne from a place he only knows as hell.

“I promise. As much as you want. But I can’t have you starving in the meantime. She’ll raze on me if you get too skinny. And I don’t think I’m tough enough for that. Come out for dinner, yeah?”

It’s not enough, it’s not what he wants. This new world is apparently instant, and he wants part of it. Since the idea sprang to him, Steve wants to speak to Peggy, he wants this to be over now, he wants to stop feeling like this, wants Bucky to be happy, all of it now.

When he doesn’t agree, Bucky continues in a calm, coaxing manner Steve had only ever heard him use around his sisters when they fussed. “How bout we send an email, then? It’s like a telegram, but I’ll call to make sure the nurses get it straight away, and Peggy can reply sooner than we might get to visit.”

“No, I-. I don’t want that.”

He wants to speak to Peggy.

“Do you want to talk to me about it, then?”

He wants to speak to Peggy.

Short and sharp is the shake of his head, not trusting his voice anymore, because he can feel it in his throat, he can feel a bubble of what he suspects might be anger and betrayal that will direct itself unwarranted towards Bucky.

Bucky pulls his hand of comfort back, his own flash of turmoil, and Steve can’t even bring himself to correct the reaction. Why shouldn't he be allowed to speak to Peggy about thoughts that are his own, when Bucky’s first action off the plane has his hair messed with where nimble fingers have run through them? When Bucky won't speak at all? It's wildly different, Steve doesn’t love Peggy in the way Bucky must Natasha, but she's still allowed to be his comfort.

“Alright, then. Let me know if you change your mind, or Jarvis can. Dinner’s almost here, for when you’re ready to come out,” Bucky says still softly, and if he felt more than that instant of hurt, Steve doesn’t know. “We can always heat it up for you later, if you need.” He leaves, and there's a soft murmuring outside the door.

The solitude helps no more than the company.

He can’t, there’s not, he doesn’t have words, to say this in a letter. A phone call, now he thinks about it, might not have sufficed either, because he wouldn’t have known what to say, had just hoped it may have come to him at the sound of Peggy's voice. Wise and calm, and somehow still English though he understands she's been in America all this time, to soothe away his ailments.

But that's not what he wanted from the phone call. Not really. 

With everything, he knows he’s angry. He wants to know why. Why she let, willingly, employed even, Zola, after _everything_. Why, it took her so long. Why, even though everyone says she did so much for Bucky, it still doesn’t seem enough. Not when Hydra is still around, and Bucky’s still _suffering_ like this.

Is she also crushed and buried under a mountain of guilt? Does it go away? Has she just learnt to ignore Bucky, how he looks, and talks, and even breathes as if he's in pain? Why do it at all, if she was just going to let it linger like this, a slow acting poison that infects everyone around him too? 

The Peggy he knows, or knew, would never have left a moment of her life unfinished. And the Peggy he knows today, says she didn’t do it for Steve, which makes it worse. Because Steve and Peggy, there weren’t, they didn’t, they were just a dream, a hope, an idea. But Bucky? Bucky is real.

And whatever she must think he's worth, it's this. Which must be why she didn’t do enough for Bucky.

She's wrong. And she needs to know.

But Bucky doesn't.

And Bucky can't know, he might suspect, the longer Steve sits in the bathroom scrunching the clothes in his hands. He picked them, over anything Pepper bought him, because he knows these will be soft, and warm. He’s not sure it will work, but it seems to for Bucky, and he’s willing to try anything. He focuses on the feel, finding his grounding in a different way. The smell. The smell, that somehow, after so long, is still the same, the Bucky he grew up with. It’s not a particular smell, not good or bad, but just so _Bucky_ , that it gives him enough strength to do what Steve Rogers always does; get back up and stand tall while doing so. After a quick splash of water to clean his face, the broken bones in his hands grinding as he turns off the tap, he pulls on Bucky’s sleep clothes. The shirt is somewhat too small, and the sweatpants too short, relying on the socks to cover his ankles, but no doubt the clothes Tony or Pepper got him would be anyway for whatever absurd reason.

Steve exits the bathroom, only marginally less disconsolate but at least he can pass the tears as water droplets now, at the same time a woman enters the room; Clint just behind her with a stack of cardboard boxes. He’s not met her before, he doesn’t think, but after she returns all the soft greetings from the group, she heads over to Tony for a chaste kiss and Steve knows enough to figure it out.

Tony speaks anyway. Though the motion can be described as hospitable, but Steve has no doubt Tony also likes the sound of his own voice. “Steve, Pepper, the light of my life, the sun in my sky, the stars in my night.”

“You’d think it’s Pepper, but he really means you, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, from where he’s back between Natasha’s legs, allowing his head to sway from the pull of her hands, molding his hair into ridiculous shapes just to let it fall each time.

“I beg your pardon?” Pepper raises an eyebrow at Tony, and Bucky winks, more movement from his cheek and mouth than his closed eyes. 

“He lies, my dear. You know how these shady S.H.I.E.L.D agents are,” and Tony moves in for another kiss, avoided by the swift duck of her head. “I would never look at anyone,” _“Or thing,”_ Clint calls out, to which Tony mutters, “It was one time,” before turning back to Pepper and says, “that isn’t you.”

Pepper looks stern, but there’s a glint in her eye that Steve likes.

“Mmm, called him Adonis the other day,” Bucky continues, finally cracking an eye open. There’s a playfulness to his tone, but Steve can see underlying concern, the tracking of Steve’s movements.

“He said something about tricks and whisks and I do believe there was a kiss,” Natasha adds.

“Absolutely false, my Salt, there’s no evidence at all,” Tony insists as Pepper gasps.

“Texts,” Bucky muses, the concern fading as he melts under the change of Natasha’s movements.

“Not anymore,” Tony stakes his phone out.

There’s no response from Bucky. He's otherwise occupied. 

The thing is, for all that Bucky took girls out dancing, Steve never really was privy to it all. There was dancing, the obvious touching that came with cutting rags, but a lot of it was transferable, a method, an act, with a few partners a night, and Bucky looked no happier than anything Steve could get out of him.

Anything more than that, Steve had never seen.

Heard about, sure, but there’s a bit of distance between hearing what Bucky got up to and _seeing_ it. Even though this is not exactly what Steve would call inappropriate, certainly he’d sat as close to Bucky on the plane, but something about it, with how relaxed and boneless Bucky looks, seems much more intimate.

And it’s also what Bucky looks like when he’s asleep next to Steve.

He's slammed back into a childish body for the second time, not an unsettled Barnes girl, but an ignored petulant boy. Steve’s spent the past two weeks wishing Bucky to look like this, fearing his loneliness, wanting him to be happy, relaxed, at ease, but now that he’s seeing it with someone else, what it looks like fully lit not just by the moon or super soldier eyesight, he wants it to stop. It’s a low blow, but it’ll work garner him some attention, so he gives a shrug and turns to Pepper to say apologetically, “I have some texts too.”

It works, with a scowl from Tony, a grin and thumbs up from Bucky, eyes delighted and smile true, leaning forward and away from Natasha, and even Pepper crinkles her nose at him. She does more than that, she steps forward and places a gentle hand on his forearm, thin fingers giving no more touch than a butterfly.

Steve instantly forgets about Bucky. Or himself.

“It’s nice to meet you Steve, though I’m sorry it means you also have to meet Tony,” she says, her tone gentle and sweet. He breathes out a soft laugh, instantly feeling lighter than he has in days, months, maybe even _years_. “Come, sit, have you tried pizza yet? I’m terrible with history, I can’t imagine it was around much in the forty's, but I’m aware you served in Europe, so I’m not sure.”

It's a sincere question asked with tact and her own humility. He’s further endeared to her. “I have had it before. We had a diner a few blocks down from the apartment I grew up in,” Steve admits.

“Not like this, you haven’t,” Bucky tells him, and for all he craved Bucky’s attention before, Steve purses his lips together at the comment. A shadow of a question flies across Bucky's face as Clint sets down what must be the pizza on the coffee table, but Steve shifts his eyes back to Pepper.

He’s on a different sort of rollercoaster right now. Not the one Natasha sent him off on, but jarring all the same. It’s the Tower, he decides, it’s doing something to him. Even Steve can't keep up with his ever changing emotions. Certainly not enough to explain them to himself, let alone Bucky. 

Strawberry blonde hair and smattering of freckles pulls him by the forearm to the lounge, though she needn't guide him, Steve is sure he’d follow her anywhere. They sit, Pepper next to Tony on the three-seater, Clint next to Natasha on the double, leaving Steve to an armchair by himself. Bucky stays where he is on the ground, though Natasha's legs are now crossed up on the couch. He balances a paper plate on one knee, the other leg splayed straight out, so that his calf rests over Steve’s feet. Bucky makes no indication that it’s on purpose, but doesn’t move it when Steve shifts his legs a little.

It’s confusing. And frustrating, and everything Steve doesn’t need right now.

And now _Pepper._

So begins another mismatched meal. There’s no talk of Soldiers, or Hydra, strategy or fights, which only panics him, the meandering pace, the lack of action, the itching that they should be doing something, anything, right now, other than wasting time. 

Until it's Pepper's turn to speak. She runs Tony's company; Stark Industries is still thriving under her guidance. It's a mundane day of business and more business, but it seems exciting in the way that she tells it, even if Steve only follows about every second word. Because it's not just that. Pepper is captivating to watch, in a different way than Natasha is. There’s something about Natasha that screams dangerous and cold, no matter how bedazzling she is. But Pepper, sings in the softest song possible, innocence, sparkles only light and warmth. But she’s still somehow fierce, with her stories and her actions, her command of the room, and her unapologetic being, in a way that reminds him a little of the Peggy he misses. Tony certainly thinks so, perhaps not the Peggy part, but he looks at no one else when she’s talking, his eyes crinkle in a way that Steve’s not noticed anyone else do to him, relaxed and absorbed in the story the same way Steve is.

Steve doesn’t mean to stare himself, but he’s enraptured by Pepper, in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time, so much so he forgets to even eat until Bucky straightens his bent knee to nudge at Steve's untouched plate. There’s barely a second thought to check if Bucky himself has eaten as he unconsciously takes a slice, some part of him knows Natasha, or someone else will ensure it, and just goes back to watching Pepper. 

Steve likes to think he’s not selfish, not most of the time, but just this once, if selfishness is aligned with sinning, he’ll gladly take penance for this.

Classy, is the word he’d use to describe her first, but no, it competes at the top with caring. It's the only battle that doesn't churn his pizza heavy stomach right now, that he'll stand for, that he’ll fight for. He desperately wants to draw her, his hands twitch with the need so much that half the toppings fall off his pizza, but he doesn’t even mind, nor make a move to add them back. They’re simply a distraction, and since everything in his life has been uncertain so far, he’s not going to waste any time on the unimportant aspects of tonight, not when Pepper is right in front of him.

He can’t quite place his finger on it, on exactly what it is that’s so alluring, but one small part he can identify is that she’s so far removed from their situation, she doesn’t want to talk about death, or S.H.I.E.L.D, or Hydra, but she's not keeping anything from them by excluding the topics; it’s everything Steve craves from this life in the twenty-first century. The normalcy, a pretence of an average life, a happy life with family and friends. A life that he wants, and wants for Bucky. That could be in the near future, nearer than sixty-six years, for the both of them.

Bucky's not spoken since the food came out, but is staring at him with a now open frown, and a dangerous look in his eye, a promise they’ll talk about this later.

There’s a part of him that doesn’t care, Steve can’t focus on that now, because Pepper is motioning him to beside her, patting the cushion. He stands a little too quickly, he can’t describe it, he’s drawn to her, he needs no further encouragement to scramble his way through pizza boxes and legs to sit beside her on the lounge. He does however, make conscious effort to sit an acceptable distance away, though his very chest is luring him closer.

She asks him a barrage of questions, Steve answering dutifully and barely containing his 'ma’ams' because Bucky told him it can be seen as rude these days, no matter how much he wants to show his respect for her. He’s honest in his answers, and hopefully expresses his absolute gratitude when he tells her that the clothes are perfect, there’s no need for anything else, no truly, he’s started with the art supplies but has not yet created anything for her to see, he’d be honoured to draw her something, of course he'll stay a while; for all Steve's new life has been shapes by Tony's gifts, it's basis is truly Pepper. Satisfied that he has the essentials, Pepper asks genuine questions about his life so far in D.C and what he likes the most about the future, and how she hopes he and Bucky will visit more often. He almost forgets anyone else is in the room with the sole attention she’s giving him, ignoring even Tony, taking in Steve's words fully, then acknowledging and responding to the nuances in his answers in a way that he thinks only Bucky might challenge her in.

He’s even more enamoured by Pepper when she says, “Bucky, dear, have another slice,” and Bucky actually takes it. “You too, Steve,” she adds. “I know you must be hungry.”

To please her, he takes four slices, he doesn’t even care what they are, and gets a beaming smile for his efforts that wraps around him like a Stevie cloak.

“Alright, time to talk shop,” Tony says, far too soon for Steve’s liking, just near the end of his third slice, and Pepper moves to stand.

“I’ll take my leave. I don’t like the violence,” she explains to Steve’s disappointed face. “But I’d also rather not see any of you dead, so if I know nothing about it, I can handle it. Just, be safe,” she says softly, patting his cheek.

It’s not Peggy she reminds him of, the realisation slamming into him as she kisses his cheek, the red all the way down his neck. He ducks his head, not to hide the blush, but for the second time, the threat of tears. 

The rollercoaster takes him back to heart ache when she leaves, both at the lack of her presence but also at the full by now frown Bucky is giving him. 

Steve ignores it. He’s not going to say anything now, not in front of everyone. And Pepper is right, they have important matters to discuss.

The itching, the despair, the overwhelming desire to hunt down any and every member of Hydra is back as Tony starts to speak. “Our little ‘Around the World in Two days’ was fun, that’s a movie by the way Steve, but we’ve all still got a target on our back. I don’t know about you guys, but red’s not really my colour.”

“It was a book first, Tony. And you're entire suit is red, in case you haven't noticed,” Steve says. It does nothing to lighten Bucky’s face. “But I’m hoping you found something useful when you were being irresponsible.”

“Not really, _Dad,_ ” Tony quips back. “Well, yes, actually, it was all useful, but none of it specifically for this guy. What I can say, for sure from my data, and all the paper trails Nat and Clint picked up while also being ‘irresponsible’, as you want to call it, there should be no more surprises. It’s just him. And then, of course, the later issue whoever’s pulling the strings.”

“What exactly is non-specific data that’s useful?”

“Mostly just research, data, methods and what not.” Steve raises an eyebrow at what’s not being said, but regrets it when Tony reluctantly explains, “Mostly just Bucky.”

There's a silence in the room, and he for sure doesn't want to look at Bucky now. "You're sure there's no other Soldiers? Except the one?"

Natasha takes over. “We're sure. It seems that they did not try beyond those that we saw, after they lost James. Try, and mostly fail. Those who were executed were strong, there is no doubt about that, but also unable to adhere to commands as well as Hydra required. By clearer meaning, they were losing more of their own agents and technicians, than targets they actually wanted eliminated. Only two were successful, as we are well aware. The first, no matter, but would have perhaps matched you, Steve, in abilities and in age of his new body. The one that we must deal with, however, is much more matured, experienced, his records go back further than I’d care to admit of my failure. His data sets and results look more promising in regards to the enhancements; strength, speed, agility, mental prowess, stamina, and reflexes, much more aligned with James. Perhaps surpassing, as we have not had recent updates on James’s abilities since his release in nineteen-sixty-eight."

"And they're after..?" He needs to be sure, that they're not here for Bucky, to take him back.

"Their trials need to continue, considering their current lack of appropriate subjects, so you are the primary target, the rest of us acceptable collateral. Including James. He was deemed unusable a long time ago, for mental incapacities.”

Steve breathes out a sigh of relief, under all their watchful eyes, until the reaction becomes clear; it’s not new information for any of them. He curses himself for giving in so easily on the plane, for daring to enjoy something, Bucky’s presence, when _this_ is what he missed, but it’s more than that. Like Bucky’s awful second persona when fighting, they all seem unbothered, so calm, so careless in the face of what’s happening. It’s different than the quiet of the Commandos, not just the lack of smoking. Perhaps it’s the idea again that it boils down to his lack of control – he always knew more than his men did, and had charge. Or perhaps he never cared as much about stopping the war as he does about keeping Bucky safe.

It’s no question that’s exactly it.

"Do you have all the information you need? That base had it all, there's nothing else you can find out?" Natasha nods slowly. "Good." They’ve offered no solution, he wonders if they also planned this, but in the silence, worried he’ll miss his opportunity, he says loud and clear. “I know I’m the variable here, so we’ll work with what we know works.”

“Which is?” Comes Tony's apparent amusement at Steve’s leadership.

“India. Tony can set up a perimeter, somewhere away from New York, away from people, if he’s willing to cause widespread damage. And then can be air support, either to us, or to any civilians who are there under happenstance.” He ignores Clint’s bemused face at the terminology and continues, “Bucky and Clint are better from a distance, so we’ll pick somewhere that works for them. And Natasha can lay the leads to draw him in, and then, – be Natasha,” he finishes lamely, but it’s the most fitting he can think to describe her. "No need for interrogation. Just get it done. He's too dangerous."

“And let me guess, you’ll be staying in the Tower, not making eyes at my girlfriend and learning about Facebook?” Tony prompts.

He flushes, maybe it never left from the brush of her lips, at the call out, but steels himself for an upcoming, worse reaction. It’s not the first time he’ll fight for an unwelcome idea, but with what he now knows of Bucky’s abilities and the potential consequences if it goes wrong, he has a feeling this will be a harder fight than with the Soldier.

“No. If he’s after me, that’s what we’ll give him. I’ll be wherever we choose, in the open. Alone.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to fight, Bucky, I know that’s hard to believe, but it seems like the world never gives me another choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers in the end notes for next chapter – avoid if you’d rather not know anything.

“Excuse me?” For a moment Steve thinks Bucky’s proving his prowess with a bow shooting an arrow to land true in Steve’s heart, but it’s just his voice, sharp and sliced in a way he’s never heard before.

He knew it was coming. Bucky never liked any of his plans, not before the war and not during, agreed only under reluctance and the threat of disciplinary action, but that was a lifetime ago. For Bucky, at least. Steve, only two weeks. He’d hoped it would be a small comfort, the familiarity of argument, but all expectations of that dissipated at Bucky’s tone.

It’s not a sound he thought Bucky could make, thought anybody could make, but as the Captain someone once falsely deemed him, he puts himself in Bucky’s head for an instance. But of course he was going to protest to this to the very end; Bucky so desperate for him to live that he won’t let Steve use a toaster or cut vegetables for fear of fatality, Bucky so scared Steve could leave that he lied over and over and over, about his life, failing to see it’s what made him _Bucky_ , who he wanted to be around.

He can empathise, it’s the same clawing in his heart he feels in return of the threat to Bucky. Which is why it doesn’t help, and he can’t let Bucky talk his way into something else, something that will certainly and permanently dig Bucky's grave.

Steve ignores the glare, but pushes a hand into his heart just to be sure there’s no wound, to stop the pounding Bucky can no doubt hear. He angles his body better to plead his case to Natasha, the one most likely to sway Bucky on this, the one with the most experience with these Soldiers, the one he trusts the strategic opinion of most.

“He was willing to come into New York, to expose himself for me. At least if we pick the playground, we can have to upper hand, know our surrounding, and won’t have to worry about civilians. And he won’t come if he knows it’s a trap, if I’m not alone. I can hold him off until you get there, and from what I know so far, from your confidence with India, between the five of us, we’ve enough hand to hand ability. And Tony’s suit seems to be an unrivalled artillery.”

Bucky breathing accelerates almost into a growl by the time Steve finishes speaking. “Stupid Goddam Rogers,” he spits out, and blinks twice in rapid succession, as if surprised at himself. His tongue pokes through his lips, just a little, and his eyebrows furrow as he works through more slow blinks.

Perhaps it happens often, as the three others simply sit back and wait, not even breathing as they watch on.

It might, as the pout is a familiar expression even to Steve, not from the forty’s, but from outside Peggy’s room the first time. It’s _adorable_ , Earth-stoppingly endearing, and Steve wishes he did it more. Until he speaks. “Sorry. Just-, remembering something. It happens,” he says with eyes looking to a distance Steve will never see, then seems to remember his present fury, “But no. That's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard.”

“Buck-”

“I’m not dangling you like a piece of meat in front of him.”

“You used me as bait with Bruce,” Steve points out.

“I used you as incentive, there’s a difference,” Bucky snaps.

“Only because you’re making it one. You agreed in India, and that was with, I mean, the Hulk was just as dangerous as this.”

“The Hulk was never actually an issue,” Bucky growls. “Bruce has been in control for a long time. No. We’ll leave you at the Tower, and I’ll go.”

"He won't come if it's you. And if he does, it'll be to kill you."

"Pray tell, exactly, what it is that you think he'll do to _you_ if we go through this ridiculous plan, when it fails, which it will, and he gets you?" Steve has to hand it to him, there’s literal acid dripping from Bucky’s voice now.

"He won't. Because you'll be there."

“And what if I don’t get there in time? What if he’s got a new gun that pierces through Tony’s armour and Dr Erskine’s skin? You can’t even stop regular bullets, I know, I've looked through holes in you. You don’t even know how to use a _knife._ ”

“Bucky, I’m good for it. I can hold my own.”

“Three days ago you barely lasted a minute!” It's not quite a yell, but it's close enough, that Steve falls quiet, and lets Bucky calm himself, before he speaks again.

“This time I'm ready,” Steve insists, firmly but gentle. The rest of the group watches in a morose sort of fascination.

“You say the stupidest shit, Rogers,” Bucky snaps. “It doesn't even make sense. You can’t just say whatever you want in a fancy commanding tone and that makes it better. Or real.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it then. But this time I know. Half a minute, Buck. That’s all I need to distract him, even just a little bit, until you get there.”

“You were half a minute shy of being a little bit dead! AGAIN,” Bucky thunders.

Steve's suddenly fed up. He hasn't been almost sick himself, with guilt, and fear, with longing for none of this to be happening, to make it end, he hasn’t cried more in the past half week than his whole life, for Bucky to yell at him. Yelling’s not, they don’t-, it’s not them. And he knows that he doesn't know what exactly Bucky's so afraid of, but it’s a deeper sense of distrust in Steve’s abilities, his motives, that hurts more than an arrow could. He can't help himself snapping, “If it’s that bad of an idea, and you’re so good, then just pick him off on the way to me. You’ve done it before.”

"No. It's not happening." Bucky huffs with finality, looking very much like he wants to keeping screaming at Steve for even thinking it. He leans back against the couch, arms folded, and fires the venom gaze towards his own feet. "Anyone else want to get their stupid ideas out before we actually start planning?"

"Only the one," Clint says, and visibly winces when the glare turns his way. “Why’d you think we waited? Better coming from Steve; at least he’s got the fancy body to withstand your reaction."

"You're fucking joking," Bucky says with furious incredulity, turning to Tony.

“For the record, I don’t like it much either, which is why we’ll make it so air tight that absolutely nothing terrible can happen.”

Bucky whirls around to Natasha, who cops the full brunt of it, but to her credit, eyes him back calmly, unaffected.

“James,” Natasha says placatingly. “It is good. We can work out the details to whatever satisfies you, but it can work.”

“No.”

“Buck-”

“NO!”

Steve sighs, and jerks his head towards the – it’s hard, when Bucky’s room doesn’t have walls - he chooses the elevator.

Perhaps it’s not the best idea, to be in a confined space with Bucky right now. But he thinks he might have to resort to some age old tactics to calm him, to make him see reason, and he’d rather not in front of others.

“With all due respect,” he starts, in line with what he knows once the door is closed.

“With all due respect,” Bucky cuts him off, harshly. “You’re not in charge here.”

“You know I’m right,” he insists. “They all know I’m right, which is why no one has come up with anything else. Why are you so against it?”

It’s not fury he’s met with this time, but it’s still intense, it’s desperation. Bucky looks torn between pulling at his hair, or clawing at his face. He manages both, but steps back from Steve when he tries to push his hands down, back pressed against the elevator wall. “I can’t let you near him. You can’t, he’ll-, they-”

“I don’t want to fight him, Bucky. I don’t want to fight anyone. But I know if I do, you’ll be there. And I know if we do this, my way, the only way, it’s one step closer to being done. To not being scared anymore, no more wondering if they’re out there. We can go _home_.”

“There is no _home_ , Steve. You lost that when you put the plane in the ocean.”

That-

He’s not even sure he can quite comprehend in this moment just how much that hurts. He doesn’t think that Bucky means it in the way Steve takes it, he has to think that, because it’s the only way he’ll stay sane in this moment.

Steve hadn’t used the word home, as a physical descriptor, as D.C or whatever bled from Hydra to his life, or Brooklyn, or even a time period. He’d meant it, and hoped Bucky took it that way, as an explanation, as a description of the pair, of what Bucky meant to him.

He closes his eyes, and hisses out his nose and shovels the hurt down, the whispering that what he'd done was irreversible in Bucky's mind, they could never be what they were. He grapples to draw back in the calm, the reason, the dredges of his heart he was going to use to persuade Bucky.

“Why can’t you see I’m trying to fix this? I’m doing this for you, Bucky! I can’t change what I did, god knows I want to, I’d do everything I could to go back and stop this all happening in the first place. But unless Tony’s got a time machine, I can’t. There’s nothing else but this.”

The air goes cold as Steve’s words hang in the air. The only sound is Steve’s heavy breathing, the slight wet as his mouth gapes in confusion at the change, until Bucky says coolly, “So that’s what this is? Retribution? You weren’t enough of a martyr the first-time round?”

“What?”

“You think you owe me something? That this is a debt?”

“No, that’s. Fuck’s sake, Buck. How can you even ask that of me? You know that’s not it.”

“I don’t know you. The Steve I know is stupid, but not this dumb. Cause even though he’s been trying to kill himself his whole life, never listened to the doctors, and picked fights with gangs thrice his size, used himself for fucking human experimentation, and willingly went into a war on a whim, and crashed a whole plane rather than look for the perfectly good parachutes not six feet behind him, even he isn’t so much of an idiot to run headfirst into Hydra. Not when he knows exactly what they can do, more than bombs and guns. Do you need another run down of what will happen? Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Yes, actually. I do.” Steve doesn’t, but he wants the truth from Bucky always, and the trust behind it.

It shuts Bucky up, his mouth at least, but not his eyes.

Steve sends his own eyes heavenward, praying, for anything, to give him strength to carry on. To make Bucky see; “This isn’t about anything like that, Buck. And I’m not looking to balance cheques. I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to fix me. You said so.”

“I didn’t,” he sighs at pinches at the bridge of his nose. He’s losing all his efforts at rationality, and there’s nothing left from his scrounging, received nothing from his prayers. “I get that you’re worried. I would be too, if it were the other way around. And whatever it is, that you want to do about it, whatever approach you want, that’s what we can do. But he’s not going to come if he doesn’t think I’m alone.” It’s daring, and it might backfire horribly, but Bucky’s all but told him that he might not be enough to change Bucky’s mind. “It’s not just me, though, you said so yourself. If he knows about your family, about Natasha…”

He tries again, to reach out, palms up and slow, hates that it looks like approaching a wild animal. It’s only an open palm, to rest on a forearm, but Bucky jerks away violently. “Don’t touch me.”

Steve stays silent, and just as slowly folds his hands behind his back. Bucky tracks the movement the whole way, chewing on his cheek with fervour, and Steve wonders if he did eat, anything, at all, if someone else did in fact take care of him.

“Get out.” Steve stares at him in shock, so Bucky looks away. “Get out. I need to hit something. And it’s gonna be you, if your honker is in the way, not that it’ll knock any sense into you.

Steve doesn’t move, unsure if this reaction is a good thing or a bad thing. Bucky's never, not once, asked him to leave.

Bad, he decides, when Bucky stares at him with pure acrimony, voice low and says, “You wanted to know how hard I hit, and it’s harder than you can take, so get out."

With that, he’s lost, banished from Bucky.

“Thanks for taking one for the team. You’re officially initiated. How’s he?” Steve just shakes his head, as Tony pulls up locations, hovering about the pizza boxes. “He’ll come around. Let’s just make this good, otherwise there’ll be no living with him afterwards if something does actually go wrong.”

Steve sends Natasha a silent plea, but she too shakes her head. Either there’s nothing she can do, or she believes Bucky truly needs to hit something, to be alone, and he’s not exactly happy with either of those answer. She purses her lips in acknowledgement and continues with her task of clearing the coffee table, pulling out a stack of yellowed paper when she’s done; he knows what they are. There’s a small pile she keeps a distance from Steve, he wonders if they’re the ones in English, or the ones concerning Bucky, possibly both. But he has time for that later, after, he needs to focus.

Because it’s bigger than having to live with Bucky saying ‘I told you so,’ for the rest of his life. And it’s much bigger than any of them possibly dying. The things he already knew they could do, the way Bucky ghosts through life, he knows there are things much, much, worse than death.

“He can’t leave the building, right?” Steve asks suddenly.

“He can’t seem to leave your side more than a few feet,” Tony mumbles, looking at the hovering photos, and Clint snorts.

It’s his turn to glare at Clint, then Tony. It’s more than the insinuation, there’s nothing about it that’s funny, in fact, it’s very, very serious. “I’d imagine he’d find the ability alongside the desire to go after this guy alone.”

Tony’s face falls, and he scrambles for his watch. Natasha looks as stricken as she can be, then annoyed, muttering what sounds suspiciously like a Russian swear word. “I’ll go,” she murmurs, in English. “Clint? Perhaps Suzhou?”

“He’s in the gym,” Tony mumbles, and there’s a flood of relief, that Bucky really did just need a release.

Clint nods, focusing on the papers, Tony calmer and back to the pictures ahead, so Steve takes the moment to head back to the drawers. It not just that he’s cold, he is, though it’s a balmy April, it’s that the light layers of Bucky’s sleep clothes aren’t doing what he hoped, what it did at the start, so rifles through until he finds a jumper. This is one just right, it must swim on Bucky, but it might just be enough.

“Aha!” Tony exclaims, having found what he’s looking for. The images change to all of the same location, from different angles. It’s no more than a barren, nice clearing, only a few hours from Manhattan, but far enough away from the next civilisation that Tony is confident even if his blasters get involved, there won’t be any causalities. He proves it with a video of several possibilities, just to appease Steve. There’s a river, which means the world to Natasha’s position and abilities, and when Clint decides he’ll have to change his position to the jet, rather than a perch, Steve gets the stirrings of doubt.

“They call me Hawkeye,” Clint shrugs, true that must be if he notices Steve’s discomfort. “May as well put some extra eyes in the sky. I’ve got bigger guns that way, it’ll hover if I need to get to the ground, and if things are going south real quick, it might be better to have a quick getaway.”

“We’re not running from this,” Steve says firmly. “He’ll never stop chasing. It needs to be done, tomorrow.”

“We know that, Steve,” Tony says slowly. “But what’s that thing you guys liked to say? ‘No plan survives first contact with the enemy?’. We need a contingency.”

“It’s open enough for me, to show that I’m alone, for miles, but Bucky’s not going to like it. There’s nowhere for him.

“Sure is. There,” Tony points to a spot in the distance, barely that, not a speck, and up close, it looks like Bucky would only fit because he’s been starving himself the past seventy years or so. Steve looks at the specifications on the screen. 

“That’s 3,500 yards.”

“He can make it.”

Steve stares in shock. “Is this a general confidence in abilities or an actual fact?”

It’s Clint who answers. “The longest recorded sniper kill shot is 2700 yards. Bucky’s made an effective shot double that before with me spotting, but even he admits that was perfect conditions. Also that the target was most definitely human and the bullet speed dropped too much that it wasn’t a headshot, just got lucky it hit somewhere else important. The difference will be enough to allow for the Soldier’s quicker reflexes, and the pressure that it’s you.”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” he breathes. Steve’s really not sure whether to be impressed or horrified. Disgusted, even.

“Honestly, the only reason he’s not shot further is because Tony stopped looking into how to improve the rifles after his, uh, retirement, so he wouldn’t be tempted. But it’s not something he just forgets how to do. He’ll make it.”

“You’re sure?” He asks, because he needs to. And he was right to, they share a look, the kind of one that goes straight to his stomach, which is trying to jump straight out of his throat.

“We’re sure. But we’ll need to keep him distanced anyway. Not that two miles is a lot, but it’s enough that one of us should hopefully be able to react in time. Listen,” and he does, Steve’s never listened harder, thankfully Tony continues without his usual fanfare. He’s serious, Steve realises, and it only increases the panic. “We didn’t know about this either. Not even Natasha. You’re lucky you missed her reaction on the plane, and I’m guessing its part of why Bucky’s so unreasonable right about now.”

“Just. Stop with that. What is it?”

Tony steels himself forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands painfully. “That hunk of a chair we saw? You know what that was for?”

“I can guess.”

“You’d be better off not thinking about it much,” Tony grimaces. “But, back in the day, they were as rare as a cure for world hunger still is, so every Hydra base didn’t exactly have one. Only, we now know after last night, Siberia, and two others. Which wasn’t helpful when they needed him quick, or when he clawed his way out their mindfucks quicker than they liked, so they found a short cut.”

Steve swallows. “Which was?”

“Random words.”

“What?”

“Apparently, according to this new found Hydra manual, they have random trigger words that could temporarily switch him back. There’s a lot a data about how they did it, none of it pleasant, but the words themselves are all redacted as to what the actual phrases are. According to Natasha, it’s not uncommon, and she thinks she might know a few, from her life before, which is absolutely terrifying now that I think of it, we’re goddam lucky she’s on our side. But if she does, and she wasn’t even Hydra, there’s no doubt others do.”

Steve looks away, trying desperately not to sick all over the recovered Hydra files.

“So one word, and he’s just, he’s just-”

“Theirs,” Tony confirms.

“And he’ll do anything?”

“Including hurt you.”

“And he knew this.”

“He did. And so did Peggy.” It’s like a slap to the face. From the Soldier. “I don’t fault his logic, Steve. If there were a list of words that could do that to me too, there’s not many people I would trust them with.”

“What if-?” He spits a swear word out, “He’s been after Hydra for forty-five years, with S.H.I.E.L.D he said. What if someone got to him, before now? If no one from S.H.I.E.L.D knew? If they killed him because of it?”

“He said, on the jet, that he and Peggy worked on desensitising him. It took years. It’s not pleasant, the in-between I don’t think, but it’s not the end of the world. Whatever Peggy found, whatever Bucky remembered, it wasn’t a complete list. It could be anything, and it’s something they could try, if they’re as desperate as we are.”

“I thought Hydra wasn’t after him?” He whispers, because he knows the answer.

“No, but it sure as heck would be a good way to wrap things up with a bow of revenge, to use him as a weapon one last time before disposing of him. Or if they understand that to control you, they just have to control him.”

Steve lets his head fall onto the coffee table with a thump. Somewhat, because it’s too much knowledge, making his head heavy, but also so his eyes can be free to do whatever they want, which is, he’s not even embarrassed, fill with tears again.

“He can’t come at all, then,” he whispers, his forehead against the cool mahogany.

“I’m telling you, with absolute certainty, that he would rather let them do that to him, than let you go alone.”

“And I’m telling you, with absolute certainty, I’m not putting him anywhere near anything or anyone that could do a hint of that to him. Again.”

“And how do you expect to do that? He won’t even agree to the idea of you being alone with four sets of quite possibly, the world’s best eyes on you.”

“Don’t care.” His voice sounds breathy to his own ears, as if even Steve can’t believe what he’s saying, what he’s daring to think. “Knock him out, tie him up. He can be our practise for the next Soldier, if that’s how you want to look at it. Whatever it takes.”

Tony slumps back into the lounge, scratching at the odd shaped beard he sports. “I mean. It is a possibility.”

Steve’s head jerks back up, even more shocked that Tony’s agreeing to it. Eyes on Clint, who shrugs and says, “But I’m not saying it’s the worst idea. But it’s not the greatest, either. We do need him. He is the best, both long and short range. And he’s going up against the best. I don’t love our chances, either way.”

“If our chances against one aren’t good, then they’ll be even worse against two,” Steve points out, now that it’s in the open, that it’s real, he’s not even able to feel guilty about the greatest betrayal he could cause in a few hours.

“It’d be up to Tasha,” is all Clint says on it.

They continue on, planning, Clint taking the lead with whatever happened in Suzhou, which is actually surprisingly applicable in this what Steve thought would be a one-of-a-kind situation, until the elevator doors slide open again, far longer than Steve wants to estimate. He doesn’t look up, just forward at the files still, as he hears two sets of footsteps on the carpet, afraid that he’ll be only able to focus on the hurt he felt with Bucky before, now when he has to focus.

“What’d Sam say?” Clint asks, twirling an arrow, Steve has no idea where from, between nimble fingers.

“Sam’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunts.

It’s a slice of pride, delivered by Bucky. Sam’s a vet himself, a vested interest in Bucky, and if even he agrees on the skeleton of a plan he would have heard, Steve is set. He wonders what Sam would say about keeping Bucky out of it, and thinks it might be the same.

Bucky sits knees curled up on the floor, no longer furious but still irked, and jaded, his body screaming that he’s no more than a trapped animal in this situation. It’s radiating so hot it should be steaming his dripping hair, and he doesn’t look the relaxed a bath gives him. Steve’s staring at the terrain above the coffee table, but he can feel the frown Bucky’s giving him, eyes firmly on the jumper.

He wishes it would stop. Bucky’s done nothing but frown, or grimace, or snap at him lately, and its salt on an open wound, sending Steve into his own instant, awful mood.

It gets worse.

From across the table, he catches a whiff of a freshly cleaned Bucky. And it smells auspiciously not like the sweater Steve is snuggled into.

It’s fruity.

Not what he expected Natasha to use. He looks away at that last thought.

He hates that these feelings of protection for Bucky are rearing now, sitting as hard as his concern for the Soldier. Hates that everyone can apparently tell, even Bucky, who’s staring at him in confusion now.

Clint, Steve’s never been so grateful for, snaps his fingers three times in front of Natasha and Bucky’s faces, and says, “Pay attention. You’re behind. This is the go, pending Bucky approval.”

Bucky doesn’t shirk at the sniper distance. And whatever misgivings he has, offers his changes in a level and steady tone, none of them changing the objective, just increasing value and protection for them all. Equally, Steve notes. It’s productive, far more so than any cabinets he’d been privy to, and civilised. And so much _easier_ with technology, until it’s pointed out that the technology is just as easy to use against him.

“Alright, we’re up at dawn.” Tony says while looking at his watch. “Any last words? Bucky?”

“Doesn’t really matter what I say, anyway. Steve’s always gonna do whatever idiot idea comes into his head, so sometimes it’s easier just to be aware beforehand. Even then, he’ll find a way to screw you over,” he says with a glance at Steve, who desperately calms his heart and rids the niggly plot in his mind.

“Lucky he won’t try such a thing in my presence,” Natasha says as she stands, and pats Bucky on the head. Perhaps she already knows, and that’s her answer. “Sleep, tonight,” she says with ice in her tone to Bucky, who just waves her off.

She and Clint exit, Tony just behind them, turning back to say, “Eyes on you both, tonight,” he warns. “No roofs, no running away. Just sleeping, and whatever else keeps you happy, just keep it PG. For everyone’s sake.”

Steve grunts, and tries to decide whether it’s worth arguing that it’s not like that, but by the time he’s made up his mind Tony’s already walking away.

“What the hell was that?” Bucky says gruffly once the door’s firmly shut, just the two of them still in the lounge room.

“Why are you still going on about this. We’ve already sorted a plan, there is no other option,” Steve starts, exasperated, but Bucky shakes his head.

"Not that, I resigned myself to all that makes you up eighty years ago. _Pepper_ ,” he hisses. “I haven’t seen you that taken since Peggy. And that was painfully embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” but feels his face goes red all the same. Steve doesn’t want to talk about this, not even to Bucky. This, he wants, for himself. In this future, he wants something to be his own. Instead of answering, he stands, and moves towards the bed. Bucky stalks after him as Steve refuses to meet his eyes, “Come on, we need to sleep, for tomorrow.”

“No,” Bucky demands, and now touch is apparently okay, with him initiating it, and if it’s less of a touch and more of a violent jerk. Steve stops with the hold on his elbow. “This isn’t up for negotiation. Spill.”

“It’s just, I don’t know, she just-, she's nice is all,” he says.

“Yeah, and she's _Tony’s_ lady,” he says, and it’s a different sort of fury from before, this is edged. Whatever Bucky thinks he feels for Pepper, he’s determined to either shake or talk it out of Steve, for Tony’s sake.

“I know that, I’m not looking to step on any toes.” Steve lets out a wavering breath. He tries to move away but Bucky doesn’t let him, won’t, until he answers. “Just been a while since-, I don’t know. It was just all of it, all at once.”

“All of what?”

“It’s like a family, here, Buck.”

Bucky deflates, quick smart and release his tight grip. The blood flows back in but Steve resists the urge to rub at it, knowing the motion will hurt Bucky more than his fingers hurt Steve, but not as much as the battering Steve’s heart took tonight. As he climbs into the bed, Bucky asks softly, “What do you mean?”

“It didn’t really look like you fit in, the other day, in Brooklyn, Buck. And I asked Becca about it, your parents,” Steve admits, keeping his eyes firmly on the roof, wondering if he’s actually looking at Jarvis. He can hear Bucky struggling, the chewing of cheeks, and when he doesn’t disagree, or reprimand him for prying, Steve continues, “And even though they were all Barnes’s, and Becca was there, even that wasn’t the same for me. Not what I remember from growing up. Your family was all I had, Buck, specially after-.” He swallows. “But then tonight? And even on the plane, and in India. I dunno. It was nice. It was like being round a campfire with the Commandos, only this time, no one had to take watch. Two weeks ago, I’d spent almost every second of eighteen months cramped up with the loudest, most annoying people I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. And I come to this and you say they’re all dead, and I’ve got no one else, it’s just-.” He can’t stop the words tumbling out. “I think mis-match is the only way I’m ever going to feel like I fit in. Especially when you breath so quietly, you don’t even snore anymore. You know it’s actually harder to sleep without you snoring, then with the chainsaw it used to be? And everything’s clean, and there’s all this free time, and as much food as I want, and-. I just, miss the way it used to be. So tonight was nice. And Pepper was the nicest of it all.”

He knows it didn’t really answer Bucky’s original question, but that doesn’t make any of it less true, and he’s glad he said it, even for the sad look he’s getting, the depressing silence. Maybe he's not banished, it's a look that only someone who truly cared could give. And Bucky does, so much that it hurts Steve to look at his face. 

“It can be both, Bucky, I’m not saying that. It can be better and I can miss the bad. The future has you, and Pepper said there’s inhalers for asthma, and after tomorrow, there doesn’t have to be any more wars. I especially like the no fighting bit,” Steve insists. He rolls to face Bucky, sliding one arm under the pillow, the other hugging it on top. “I don’t want to fight, Bucky, I know that’s hard to believe, but it seems like the world never gives me another choice.”

“I reckon I know something about that too,” he sighs.

“Exactly. Just like the tired. But we can do something about them though,” Steve says, pulling the covers down on Bucky’s side. “I meant it, on the plane. You’re not doing this on no sleep.”

Bucky nods, but lies down, tense, facing away from Steve. His shoulders are so hunched up to his head that the hair looks irritating, stuck out at all angles, so Steve reaches out to brush the hair off his neck and shoulders in case it irritates him. Bucky twitches away, so Steve moves his hand away, hides the rejection, the constant, compounding rejection from tonight, and because he’s done so well with his words so far, he whispers, “I just want it to be over. For you.”

He stays silent, Steve doesn’t think he’ll get a response, until he relaxes slightly and rolls to face Steve. He just stares at Steve’s solar plexus, chews, Steve hates the chewing, hates it as much as everything else, and Bucky whispers himself, “I know.”

It’s a weight off his chest, until Bucky starts to tremble.

“Aw, Buck,” he tsks sympathetically, and moves his arm up.

It was meant to be no more than a pat on the back, Steve’s initiation for touch tonight so far only producing disagreeable results, but before he has time to recognise what’s happening, Bucky wriggles in, so close and quick, that his head butts into Steve’s chest. It’s only a natural response, to hold him tight, apparently natural for Bucky to bring his hands between both their bodies, knees knocking until Steve slips one of his own between Bucky’s to lessen the discomfort. His leg has no choice but to bend on top, his heel resting naturally on Steve’s calf. Bucky doesn’t complain, or shift; apparently this position is comfortable both in consciousness and unconsciousness.

 _This_ , this is more the touch Steve had been expecting, when Bucky mentioned it, but he hates that it comes with the cost of the shaking, and not from cold under the heavy blankets. When it continues, uncontrolled, for far longer that Steve wants, rattling even into Steve, knocking his thoughts about, he asks, “What’s this?”, instead of ‘Are you okay?’. Because Bucky’s clearly not.

“Me first,” he chatters.

“What?”

“One for one. You went first last time. So me now.”

“Alright, then.”

“What do you need to say to Peggy that you can’t say to me?” It comes tumbling out, like he’s been biting it back since the bathroom.

“It was- it’s not like that.”

“So you keep saying,” he accuses, and moves his hand into Steve’s chest, a semblance of a push, but the pressure is grounding, not destabilising.

Steve deliberates, because he doesn’t think it will help Bucky any, knowing this information. But this is more than just a game, it’s more of a promise, and Bucky is still desperate and afraid in the night light. “I’m so angry at her, Buck,” he whispers, almost ashamed.

It’s not what Bucky expects, and it stuns him enough to still the shaking momentarily. “What?”

“No one told me S.H.I.E.L.D was hers. And it’s all still hers, even to this day.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Bucky’s voice sounds young, muffled against Steve’s body, young and lost and confused.

"Look what they did, what they’re still doing. To you.”

“They’re not doing anything.”

“They are, you just can’t see it.”

“They’re not,” Bucky insists. “It’s just a shock for you, because it’s such a change.”

“No,” Steve stands firm. “It’s not right.”

“What is this even coming from?”

“I thought the serum made you smarter,” Steve tries, but Bucky doesn’t laugh. His body language is indignant, now stiff against Steve. “She let Zola in, when she knew what he did, what he was capable of.”

“She didn’t though, no one did. Because I never told anyone.”

“She knew enough,” Steve’s reply is short. “She shouldn’t have let him live. Let alone employed him.”

“What was she meant to do, let another country get their hands on him? Do you realise how much worse that could have been?”

There’s nothing worse than this, he wants to say. “Stop, we’ll get nowhere with this. I’m allowed to be angry about this.”

“Just… Don’t be angry at Pegs.”

Steve bites back the argument, he said this was done with Bucky, and he’ll stick to it. “Alright, my turn,” he murmurs as he rests his chin against Bucky’s head, his lips are so close he could kiss to top of his hair, his forehead. But he doesn’t. Instead he says, not really a question, “I know about the trigger words.”

Bucky nods against his chest.

“Would you tell me them?”

“I don’t remember any more. Peggy and I got all that we knew,” he says, and it’s a bitter pill that Bucky never actually answered the question.

“Is it the same as where you go, in your head?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were fighting. It seems like you were away, so far away. And the night you had the nightmare. Then again, for a moment, on the plane.” _I don’t like it,_ Steve wants to say, but doesn’t. _It scares me_ , he thinks, but doesn’t voice. “Tony said there’s an in-between, when you hear the words. Is that what it is? What Peggy did?”

“No,” and the words brings a full shudder, so Steve tries to rub it away. “That’s-. The words, it’s not good. And it’s still Hydra. When I go away to fight, it’s just… Somewhere better.”

Steve doubts it, but remembering the calm, the almost serenity, compared to the almost insanity he witnessed in Siberia, it’s not something he can know for sure. “So why does it happen then? If there’s no words, no-,” he swallows down the word chair.

His breathing hitches a little, so Steve keeps rubbing. “Alphabet, Stevie.”

“Which one is it?”

“Not really how it works. They all cross over.”

“Like dyslexia? Or hyphens?”

Bucky laughs a little, small puffs of air onto his chest, they could be sobs. He spares Bucky his dignity by not looking down to check. “Only you.”

“Only wanna know so I can help.”

Bucky smiles sadly, again, this Steve feels against his muscles. “I know.” Then turns serious. “You can help by staying out of it,” 

Another sigh. “You know I can’t do that.”

“This isn’t some schoolyard fight, Steve. This guy, these people, they-”

“I know, and that’s why I can’t let you do it alone.”

“I just got you back,” he wails into Steve’s sternum, miserably.

Steve feels like a broken record, which apparently barely exist anymore. “And I’m not going anywhere.” It’s the whole truth, but he’s going to need to try every variation until he makes a dint in the infinite depths of Bucky’s fear. It doesn’t do much to shrink it, in fact the opposite, his eyes squeeze shut so hard there are wrinkles from it, uneven breathing on a pained face. Bucky makes a sudden move to roll away, so Steve holds his hand firm between his shoulder blades, until Bucky pushes hard and tumbles out of the bed.

Steve didn’t even know they could still vomit, but he supposes this isn’t from rich or rotten food. It’s certainly not from too much, no, this is a _fear_ response. Though, Bucky avoids food like he’s afraid of it, so maybe it’s the same. Hyphenated, even.

Steve does his best, he really does, to apply a hangover cure to this, to rub his back through the worst of it, muttering nonsense and soothing words, and get a glass of water afterwards, but what Bucky seems most appreciative of is his hair being held back out of the way, and combed with untrained fingers into a small ponytail with the first rogue hair band Steve spots.

“Thanks,” Bucky croaks faintly, when he’s certain he’s done, still on the tiles.

He looks truly wrecked, so Steve offers, “Bed?”

Bucky shakes his head, and just stays on the cool tiles, head between his knees, while Steve rubs his shivering back. Actual shivers, this time, when he understands Bucky is cold, not visibly upset, so he shucks off the hoodie and helps it onto Bucky’s head like he would dressing Bucky’s sisters. It's almost instant, and effective, calm enough for Steve to pull him back to the bed and tuck him in, Bucky burrowing in on himself. 

Steve returns to the bathroom to clean up, and in his haste to get back to Bucky, to not leave him alone after he just _promised_ he wasn't going anywhere, breaks the thin glass against the bathroom countertop. 

"S'fine," Steve says softly, when he sees Bucky's shape rise. "Just knocked the water." 

Water, which is now seeping into the hem of his shirt, and with a start, he realises a stray shard must have caught his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to bleed, red staining the shirt also.

He swears quietly. It'll do Bucky no good to see blood on him when he's already fretting, no matter how insignificant the injury, so he pulls off the shirt while he sucks the cut to clot the bleeding. Erskine told him even his spit would be super, and he's grateful for this power that has never come in handy until now.

He doesn't bother with another shirt, just crawls back into bed. Bucky’s seen him in all forms, definitely without a shirt is the least of the embarrassments, but as he nudges Bucky back into position, he stiffens with the realisation they've never done _this_ with so much exposed skin.

Although, until a week ago, they'd never done this at all.

In any case, Bucky doesn't seem to notice, just presses his clammy forehead into Steve's bare chest. 

“I’ll give you one for free,” he says, in the attempt to distract himself of how suddenly naked he feels despite still wearing pants. "It’s not- it’s, Pepper, she reminds me of my Ma.”

Bucky’s eyes fly open and he tilts his head up to Steve, blown iris eyes wide, worried, but Steve smiles sadly down at him.

“I just wasn’t expecting it. I guess I'm just used to people seeing me and thinking Captain America, or seeing me and asking what medical diagnosis I was carrying, but Pepper wanted to know more about just plain old Steve. She asked me about socks, of all things. But it's not just that. She carries herself like Ma, it's the same smile, even the hair, the freckles, surely Pepper's Irish somewhere along the way." Bucky nods, silently, because really, what is there to say. “Don't you think?” Steve asks when it's been quiet for too long, desperate for validation.

“I-. I try not to think about that time too much, sorry Stevie. It's... Hard. But I know to be your Ma she had to be a saint. And so is Pepper.”

He doesn’t know if Bucky means he doesn't let himself think of it, or if he doesn't want to admit he doesn't remember. But Steve doesn't care if this is a memory he forces on Bucky, because Sarah Rogers was too beautiful a person to ever be forgotten by anyone who knew her. And now, there are only three left; Steve, Bucky and Becca, miles away and maybe not for long.

“She was just always there,” Steve begins, and the fingers that lay bunched between them curl tighter, but he carries on. “After school. And she cared about my day, the walk there, which sums I found hard. She was never even disappointed in the fighting, as long as it was for the right reasons. She hated that I got hurt from it, but no matter what happened or how many times she’d stitch me up, she’d always kiss me right here,” he presses a soft thumb at a spot just between Bucky’s cheekbones and the corner of his mouth, a spot likely inaccessible on Bucky because both their noses would get in the way, let alone inaccessible because Bucky would never want it, “when I said it was still better me than someone else. It was her in the first place who told me if I had the ability to help someone, I always should. That I needed to stand up for what was right, even if it was hard. That’s what I see in Pepper. The strength, the care, the good heart that I have to remind myself far too often to try to have.”

Bucky doesn't stop him, and it’s been so long, _so long_ , that he’s felt he can talk about this so he continues. “Her hands were so sure. Like you could tell they were gentle, but firm when the needed to be, and they never shook, not till the very end. Peppers even got the same wrists,” Steve says, bringing his hand off Bucky’s back to thumb over the protruding bone that sticks high, but didn't used to. “Always wondered if she’s who taught you steady hands, when she taught you how to do stitches for when she wasn't around to see me back up.”

Bucky doesn’t answer the question. “She was real proud of ya.”

“Of you too.”

“She was the best,” comes Bucky’s choked reply, and Steve pauses at the breath that follows, somehow wistful and longing.

Through his relief at talking about it, comes a horrible guilt. He’s rambled on, about the love his mother never failed to show him, when it’s something Bucky hasn’t felt, it’s quite the opposite, for far longer.

"She really was. She loved you like a son, too, Bucky," he adds. It might not be helpful, but it is important for Bucky to know.

They fall into a comfortable silence, until Steve can't fight the sleep any longer. He slips off with a half amused, half exasperated thought that falling asleep, half naked with Bucky in his arms, will not look kindly for him in Tony's eyes in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved your guesses! I wish I was clever enough to liken Pepper to Bucky, I think there would have been some really interesting comparisons to make there. But alas…
> 
> Friendly warning! The next chapter might be a while coming, not just because life is _finally_ starting up again, but also, as per tags, this story is marked ‘To Be Continued,’ which really means that next chapter ends on a cliff hanger… Honestly if you’re still around, you should know by now that I’m cruel. But I’d like to think that I’m not _that cruel_ , so I’m planning on having the next work up at the same time so there’s no wait. It’ll still be mean, but it could always be worse. Right?


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TW for canon-typical violence and pain stuff* 
> 
> Hello! And welcome to the end! And thank you! For everyone who’s read, kudosed(?), commented or otherwise thus far, I truly appreciate it. It’s been a long and tough year, and this little labour (of love) has certainly helped me through it, as have you all! I hope this too has been a semblance of an escape from whatever parts of the world you enter fanfiction to for, or if you’re here to just enjoy, I hope you found that!
> 
> Dear comment section, you are all so dear to me, and helped me grow as a scribe, and shape what I honestly think is a lovely little canon divergence idea between Steve and Bucky from something horrific (truly, truly, horrific- the first draft of this work and the rest of the story I have coming fit into about 40,000 words if that’s any indication) into a passable story which has lasted 31 chapters, and will continue on! I’m honoured that you take the time of day to read and then tell me about your experience. And pointed out glaring plot holes – not just the ones I’ve conveniently placed so my tiny shoe box characters can breathe – feel free to do the same in days to come if you continue with me and my boys.
> 
> Happy whatever you celebrate, and if you don't, then happy 24th of December :)
> 
> Welp! Here we go!

Something’s wrong.

It's not the sinking in his heart with the knowledge that he has to take a life today, something he's not sure his Ma will forgive him for no matter the reason. It's not the clenching of his stomach, his battle ready body failing to find any other outlet for the adrenaline until he can throw his shield. It's not even the vice around his lungs that he'll have to hyperventilate through in order to have enough reserve when the panic and the fight comes.

It's just _wrong_. To be alive, to be here, right now.

Steve deserves all the iterations of idiot Bucky could ever conjure for him, all he had in the past 66 years, and even those since Steve was 12 years old and meeting Bucky, for ignoring the feeling all morning. And now it’s too late, standing in the middle of a very open, very lonely clearing.  
  
  
The knowledge gnawed at him from the moment Steve woke to the dawn's lines, not even needing to open his eyes to know Bucky hadn’t slept, not that night, not the four before. The worry, he understood, but now Steve had to add his own fucking worry that Bucky hadn’t slept for five days and was about to hold a firearm, was about to face off with a Devil of man’s making and worst nightmare, on nothing but coffee.

And then-

Bucky didn’t drink any coffee.

Didn’t have breakfast either, that wasn’t unexpected, but God, the coffee. Steve didn’t agree on any part of the idea that had Bucky replacing actual nutrients for burnt beans and hot water, but for the sake of normality, he insisted, once, twice, that Bucky at least drink a coffee. Steve shut his own damn mouth at nausea he could see pushing its way up Bucky’s throat, the pale sweats, the pleading in Bucky’s eyes though he remained silent, shaking his head.

Steve should have called the whole thing off then.

He didn’t.

It wasn’t a fight either of them needed, so Steve had left it.

“Where’s my shield?” He asked once he’d wriggled on his suit with a worse sense of dread than the first time, before India. India, Steve had been to India and Siberia and back in a matter of days. But he couldn't let this crazy future take its toll, not yet. He just needed a few more hours, of sanity, of any sort of grasp on reality, before they would be free. And then Steve would have his impending breakdown, maybe far from a roof this time just to keep everyone happy after a hard day.

“Tony’s probably still fiddling with it. The metal is still rare, he only had what notes Howard left on it. He’ll bring it up,” but Steve shook his head; it was the perfect opportunity.

“I’ll be back in just a moment,” he said and slipped out the door before Bucky had time to look at his face, to spot a lie, a plot.

Jarvis led him to where Natasha, Tony and Clint all stood, ready and waiting and apparently un-phased by what they were about to do. 

“We’re all going,” Clint said in answer to the unasked question the moment Steve stepped onto Tony's floor.

“Natasha,” Steve started, the back of his mind screaming that _this_ could be the fight of the day, bigger than the Soldier.

But she came in menacing, blazing, gaze steady and strong, and stepped into his space in a way that made him want to cower. “I won’t betray him like this.”

“Not even to save his life?”

“He will be safe. You may know your Bucky, but I know James. I know what he is capable of, alone and with our team,” she replied coolly.

“He hasn’t slept,” Steve said, letting his own anger colour his voice, “in days, now. I know it, you know it; it doesn't matter how good he is, that alone would never be allowed on a field. And that’s before we add in who, and what, we’re facing.”

“There’s nothing that could hold him here, Steve. And if, rather, _when_ , he gets free, he’d make it there, destabilised with a larger fear than he already has and more urgency. That is how mistakes are made. If he arrived in the middle of our half-executed plan, it would also affect us.”

“Natasha's right. If anyone is going to be able to kill this guy and properly, it’s going to be Bucky. Without him, we’d likely just get killed in the process, and then Bucky would have to take care of it anyway. And he'd be very upset. We generally try to avoid that. Happy wife, happy life."

"This isn't a joke, Tony," he snapped. It may have been true, but he didn't care for logic; only for sparing Bucky. “He won’t even drink a coffee.”

Natasha’s face twisted in displeasure, though she tipped her head in acknowledgement. “That may be so, but it's not just about the abilities. He needs to do this. Steve, he needs to know for sure it’s over. And when the time comes, he will undoubtedly break his position, to save you, and to be the one to kill him. And we're going to let him. We've planned for it, and you need to, as well.”

Steve growled. She was acting like a soldier, and goddam he was going to treat her as one, not a woman. Clint stood firm behind Natasha, very close, like a guard, hackles raised in response to Steve’s own. Tony just shrugged.

“Do none of you care?”

“We do, Steve.” Tony explained, resigned. "We do care. Don't ever question that. I know you don't want to hear it, but this isn't your world, not yet. Trust us to know Bucky, this Bucky, as we trusted you with your plan."

"Maybe you shouldn't have."

Tony just shrugged again. "Why wouldn't we? You're – you're Captain America. _The_ Captain America.”  
  
  
Everyone, Tony said, would be safe because he was Captain America, the man with the plan. But now-  
  
  
“Did you get your shield?” Bucky asked when Steve stormed back into the room, not even thinking about what questions his mood and apparent lack of action would bring, just thinking about getting away from them, getting back to Bucky.

He cursed silently, then muttered, “Forgot.”

“You-. Forgot?”

“Ran into Natasha,” Steve said darkly.

“What’d she do to make you so foul?” Bucky asked.

Steve just grunted. He didn’t have time to play nice about Bucky’s gal right now, but it was more than that, as he looked at Bucky's wary expression, catching the flicker of panic that flashed across it. He should not have brought this to Bucky; whatever he was already feeling about the coming fight, Bucky didn’t need Steve's own dramas on top of it.

“Just, don’t-,” he said to Bucky’s oncoming question, then sighed. “Just didn’t sleep well.” Bucky looks a little guilty, so he asks, "Did you even try?"

Bucky shrugged. "No point. Reckon the first time I’m gonna get a good night’s sleep since I shipped outta Brooklyn will be when I’m dead.”

Steve had shut his eyes, and hissed out his nose. “Please don’t say that,” he said through gritted teeth. After meeting the three downstairs - team, he now knew; not his brothers, not quite like the Commandos, but eclectic and just as annoying in their own right - he’d hoped Bucky would calm him, but this was the opposite. It's certainly not as funny when Bucky jokes about it than when Steve does.

“Sorry,” Bucky had said quietly, almost like he meant it, and edged closer. “You doing alright?” When Steve breathed heavy and slumped his posture, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose, it was Bucky murmured, “C’mere,” and pulled Steve into his arms. Steve's surprise was outweighed by the grounding Bucky gave him, chin on his shoulder, cheeks almost brushing, chest against chest. “I hate this too,” Bucky sighed. Not spiteful, but vulnerable, he added, “And if this goes bad, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life. I'll spend every day telling you that.”

“It won't. Nothing bad is going to happen,” Steve murmured, unbelievable even to his own ears as he gripped back, tight, too tight but Bucky didn't complain, in fact just held on tighter himself. Everything about this - them - felt ominous, bad, the same dark he’d felt since he woke. They’d never held each other like this, like last night, tight and desperate, before a mission, or now, still grasping close, and it whispered in Steve’s heart like a bad omen.

And Steve ignored it.  
  
  
“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, and Steve’s heart stops. There’s only one thing that could put that much fear into Bucky’s voice.  
  
  
“Are you sure it’s not you we should leave behind?” Natasha asked, casual, but he knew her well enough by now to know there was just a hint of unease in her posture. "James came to me, concerned. He was worried I upset you this morning," she explained as she handed Steve his shield. 

Steve nodded, there was no point lying to her, but he couldn’t risk anyone’s lives further by throwing a fit about it. “I just-," he stopped as quickly as he started, and took to concentrating on strapping his gloves firmly around his wrists.

"Better to have it out here with me, than in the middle of a knife fight," she said.

Everything was wrong, even his gear which was fine just the day before.

And there's nothing she could do about it, nor the jealousy Steve realised but would never admit was a part of it, but there were other doubts he knew she could alleviate.

"Clint called him Bucky,” Steve admitted as he undid his left glove, only to strap it tighter.

“We discussed that meaning.”

“Yeah, I know. But, just-. When they were fighting, on the street, I couldn’t get it out of my head that I was watching a reflection, or a mirror of the same person."

"You served for America?" When Steve nodded, she explained, "The Colt M1911A1 pistol. You would have used it. But perhaps a Colt M1903 would have felt different in your hands."

"I don't-"

"You would not have used a safety, your magazine grip on the side rather than the bottom. A double link lock, rather than your single, and a .32 caliber. Steve," she said as she softly took his hands in hers and fixed the gloves he was still obsessing over. "They are weapons, forged in the same factory. But you would have a favourite, would you not? You know how one feels in your hand, compared to the other. You of all people, resourceful as you are, are aware of how weapons may be used differently. And how some are trusting, and worthy, and save lives, and others you need to discard of before they blow up in your own face, taking lives.”

The glove felt somewhat right, more right than his own attempts, and he looked up to green eyes boring into him.

He shut down the images her gaze produced, of trash can lids, and rocks, before the guns and the shields, the only constant in all of that being Bucky. “And if I can’t?” Steve stared back at her, so hard, that he wondered if he could actually see into her mind instead, perhaps read hers for once.

“Then I will take care of it. I promise you. And I will take care of James.” 

He never doubted Natasha's conviction, no matter that they disagreed about Bucky's involvement, but it was nice to hear it all the same. Bucky would be fine without him, if anything happened. And nothing would happen, because Natasha assured him it wouldn't. He hoped she was more convincing with Bucky than he was.

It was all they had time to speak about before the jet appeared and Tony and Bucky entered, but it was as much as Steve needed to keep his wits about him. He didn’t stumble on the climb to the jet, so that was a good start. He didn’t strap himself in again, and with one look at Steve’s face, Bucky headed to pilot. He obviously knew Steve was feeling the full force of everything the plane encompassed, but Steve wished what had shown on his transparent face and anxious actions was that he wanted Bucky closer, not further. 

Although, sitting close to Bucky might have undone Steve completely, because no one had the right to look as good as he did before going off to murder a the lingering remains of a failed and fucked up socialist party. If Hydra even ever were Nazis to begin with.

Bucky pulled his hair back before taking off, high, higher than Steve had seen it so far, not on their run or Natasha’s first visit. Steve couldn’t help but be entranced as he watched expert fingers twist a band around so that it sat in a loop and didn’t brush at his neck, more in the middle or almost the top of his head. The difference in height had a phenomenal effect on his features, even from just what Steve could see from the side. It drew Bucky’s face back, his jawline, his cheekbones, even his eyes sharp, more so than what the gauntness of starvation caused. Only a few strands at the front had a chance to escape, not to distract Bucky's view, but to frame his face, tickling just where his jaw angled up towards his ear.

He looked like an angel of death.

It was the most inappropriate of times to have these thoughts, but it was the most beautiful Steve had ever seen Bucky look, even with the grey pallor that he never knew was possible in humans. And then when they had arrived and Bucky swapped out the cockpit to pick up his weapons, in a déjá vu of India, his ease with them was terrifying, but also entrancing, Steve was captivated by smooth fingers tap dancing over cool metal in a mesmorising pattern, comfortable and confident.

“It’s a good plan, James,” Natasha murmured to Bucky as she checked her own munitions. “It’s going to work.”

Steve couldn’t help but watch them, the way they flowed around each other, the silent words their mouths didn’t say but their eyes did. Steve wondered if Bucky ever looked at him like the way he stared intently at Natasha. Could ever look at him like that.

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Bucky replied grimly, like Tony the night before.

“It is good,” she insisted.

“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it,” he grumbled as he stared at her with another but different look Steve could only ever dream to capture with his pencils, let alone understand.

“We don’t like it,” she said roughly, grabbing at his arm and shaking it. “That’s what sets us apart. Remember. Remember this.”

Natasha disembarked first, with just a nod to the team, a nod that Steve hoped was to be the promise she shared with him just before the flight. 

Then it was Tony's turn, a dismount of a dramatic twirl and a reference that Steve didn't understand.

Then it was Bucky's turn.

“Don’t go there,” Steve pleaded just before Bucky stepped out. He didn't necessarily disagree that this was something Bucky needed in order to move on, but he wholly did with the method. “Where you go, where you went when you were fighting last time. When things get too much, the night with the knife. Don’t go there. It’s what makes you, you, not him. It’s the only way to win.”

Bucky had stared at him with a look Steve had never seen before. He didn't like it, nor the words that followed. “It’s all I have, Steve, I'm nothing without it. It’s the only way.”

“You’re not nothing, Bucky. But if you go there, they win in other ways. Hydra gets what they want. What they created.”

“What they created, was an infallible weapon. What better time to use it, if not now?”

“No," he insisted, closing the distance in one step, so close to Bucky their noses could touch if Bucky tilted his head up, or Steve his down. "Do this as Bucky, and it can be over. It can be done.”

“It won’t be. It never will be. There will always be two more.”

It was like some invisible line had been crossed, since last night, touching, while still awake, for Steve, at least. He caved into the intoxication and lay his forehead against Bucky's, his voice going small. “Then we can deal with that later. There’s two of us. But just don't, not with him. I need Bucky at my back, the Bucky I know and trust, not someone else. Please.”

Bucky breathed in, long and deep, pushing back against Steve’s press. “You’re a stubborn ass, Stevie, you know that?”

“Feel free to tell me more, but just don’t expect change.”

The darkness in him, the terrible feeling of dread, clashed with the beautiful feeling of all that he felt when he was so close to Bucky.

There was only one thing left.

"Bucky, I-" he stops, and took his own deep breath. "Just don't do anything stupid," he said instead of what he really wanted, and hated himself deep to the core for it. 

"That's my line, jerk," Bucky said with dark eyes, one last lingering gaze before he stepped off the ramp.

Steve should have called him back.

He didn't.  
  
  
And now-

“Tasha?” Bucky pleads into the headset, but like the last four tries, there’s only silence. 78 seconds, Steve’s had to sit in shared panic with the rest, a panic he knows might spiral Bucky into a dark place, Steve only moments behind him.

“What the hell is going on?” Tony chimes, and for maybe the first time in the short time that Steve’s known him, he’s serious. Grave, even.

“There’s only one reason she wouldn’t be answering, and I need to rip out that reason’s throat,” Bucky growls.

"How the heck does someone get a jump on Natasha?" 

It's Hydra. That's how.

“Alright, new plan,” Clint chimes in. “Get the fuck out.”

“We-”

“Shut up, Bucky,” Clint says. “We dangled Steve, and I don’t like the Soldier's bite. Tony, get to Nat’s last position. Steve, stay put and alert. Bucky, hold, you can cover both Tony and Steve from there.”

Bucky doesn’t argue, and it’s clear why; Clint’s giving him an out disguised as an order, one that means he doesn’t have to choose between Steve and Natasha.

No one else argues either, except Steve’s stomach which begins to churn bile at the entire situation. The situation created by him, Steve, The Infallible Star Spangled Man.

“He obviously knows we’re all here, and I’m not a fan of that. Nor the way that he's taken out Nat. I’m gonna get get up higher to see if I can spot anything. Sit tight, stay sharp, and as soon as we get Nat, we’re all clearing out. We’ll figure something else out.”

Tony doesn’t bother with stealth on his flight either, there’s truth in Clint’s words. If Natasha, as much as a ghost as Bucky is, if-, _if_ something’s happened to her, there’s no chance the rest of them will be hidden. Tony lands, it’s still over two miles from where Steve is, but the red is hard to miss.

“Nat,” Steve hears Tony breathe in his ear as he disappears down the bank.

“Report,” Bucky urges.

“Yeah, yeah, just gimme a sec,” Tony says, still breathy. “She’s just out, I think.” There’s a pause, then, “J?”

“Miss Romanoff has no signs of injury.”

“Gonna need more of an answer than that, buddy.”

“She appears to be in a deep sleep state, similar to a coma,” comes the calm, British reply.

“Unconscious with no injuries?” Steve asks, distracted for almost a moment. He readies himself again, the balls of his feet digging into the soft dirt a little, and crouches, scanning everywhere except his six. He hates it, but it’s familiar in a way not much has been so far; fighting Hydra, Bucky at his back from an unseen perch a distance away. A long distance away. It's the small things he's holding onto, today. "A poison?"

“I can't find out from here, we'll need the jet. We need to get her out of here,” Tony decides. “Clint- what the?”

There’s a small intake of breath, the beginning of a whimper, but it’s familiar, and the most beautiful thing Steve thinks he could hear right now.

“Tasha?” Bucky sounds just as, in fact infinitely more, relieved than Steve.

There’s a sigh, and Natasha says, “I fear I’ve been compromised. It seems James is not the only to be influenced by words.”

“What happened?” The relief is gone.

“I’m not entirely aware. I believe I just… Stopped being.”

“Triggerable narcolepsy, Hydra’s newest weapon. How very useful,” Tony notes.

“It’s not. Are you sure that’s all, Tasha?”

“I-,” she says and there’s a sharp intake of breath. “I’m alright, James. Focus your attention where it’s needed.”

Steve’s seen large waves rising meters high on Bucky’s television, a crescendo to a point where the white folds over the savage blue and then they crash into their own water below, pulverising everything in their path. It's not dissimilar to his sense of wrongness, and he's terrified for the impending break. It’s worse than a rollercoaster, this feeling, at least on a rollercoaster there’s an ending, a security in the harnesses, and some even find joy from it. Waves are Nature’s doing, and right now Steve’s grabbling at sand slipping through his fingers and already drowning.

It's obvious, but he says it anyway. “I don’t like this.”

Whatever tone he managed to get those words out with makes Bucky sound more concerned than he did with Natasha, as he says, “Steve-”

And that’s when the first shot comes.

He hears the recoil of the gun only moments before it the bullet strikes the shield he only barely manages to get up in time.

“Three seconds,” he calls to Bucky, no air for anything else, but trusts that Bucky can work out the distance and location from the angle of the bullet.

It’s silent, another three seconds, before Bucky replies softly, “I don’t have him.” Steve drops his shield a margin, daring the Soldier for another shot. He hopes he can dodge more of the Soldier's bullets than the Soldier can Bucky's.

“Tony, get ready for air support,” Bucky says at the same time as Clint calls out, “Still nothing from up here.”

So Steve does the only thing he can think of.

He lowers his shield.

“You idiot, keep it up,” Bucky hisses.

It works, and no sooner than he says it does he get the warning of the second shot, and Steve has to twist, fast, to cover himself.

“Two seconds,” he breathes. The Soldier is moving fast, and changing directions. If Bucky can’t see him-

The third shot rings out, but it’s not for Steve.

“Tony!”

“It’s fine,” Tony gasps.

“Can you get it up?” Comes Natasha’s murmur.

“Imma need a minute.”

Clint's calm is forced and unwelcome as Steve's eyes dart around where he knows with absolute certainty the Soldier should be, but isn't. “You guys seem to be having some trouble keeping it up down there. Don’t be ashamed, you know one in five-”

“No, I mean, I can’t. Father Trucker’s grounded the suit,” Tony curses. “That wasn’t a bullet, that was an EMP. I'm just about useless until I reboot.”

Bucky sucks in a sharp at the understanding. “He’s taking us all out; Tasha was meant to stay down. He's gonna isolate Steve."

"You need to get out of there, Bucky," Steve says, but he can hear that Bucky's already shuffling back.

"We’re all compromised, but he might not know that Tasha's up. Clint, get Tony out. Tasha, keep cover on Steve while I-”

The ground where Steve knows Bucky is scrambling from disappears into a mushroom of fire and dirt, high in the sky.

It’s a vacuum of sound that sucks even at Steve two miles away, dislodging his footing and pulling all the air from his lungs. He just stands gaping in horror at the Devil fire burning, silently mouthing words he doesn’t even know what they mean, until he realises it’s Bucky’s name, over and over and over again.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the plume, long enough for it to reach Clint in the sky maybe, and long enough to for the universal silence to ring louder than the explosion. “Buck?” He breathes, barely, swallowing a gulp of the debris and brings a shaking hand up to his ear piece as if it’s the device’s fault that Bucky’s not replying. “Bucky…”

Steve knows the others are staring up at the explosion, what’s left of-, what’s left, with the same paralysis that he has, but he wants to be told that he’s wrong. “Clint,” he croaks, but gets no reply. He tries again, “T-, Tony?”

It's white noise is his brain, a familiar, of snow and trains and ravines of only three weeks ago, so loud it drowns out the ragged breathing in his comms and the pounding of his heart, his heart, he's surprised his heart hasn't stopped, it hasn't, he knows this because it hurts right now, so much that he'd rather rip it out, and is so so deafening that he completely misses the sound of footsteps until it’s a familiar fist to his temple, harder than he remembers.

Steve falters, bringing his forearm up to block any blows that come while he gathers his footing, just like Bucky taught him. If the Soldier meant for it to disable Steve, to knock him out, he was sorely mistaken. The pain snaps him out of his shock, makes him angry enough, to hit back, harder, enough that he sees a flash of emotion in the Soldier’s eyes. It’s not fear, it’s pleasure, delight at a challenge, and the hard hits Steve took to the head were the lightest of them all, and the slowest, Steve moving the quickest he's ever to get his shield up in time for each of the retaliating blows.

But there’s no way that this creature wants to capture Steve as much as Steve wants to rip him apart, and it shows, in the fleeting surprise the Soldier quickly blinks away as Steve continues to strike hard and smart, going for his kneecaps and soft exposed skin of his neck.

Steve is fueled enough to barely notice when it’s a knife instead of knuckles, ignoring the grima type screech when it scrapes down his shield. With another kick to the kneecap the Soldier doubles over, using the lowered position to tackle Steve to the ground. Steve wastes no time in turning the momentum into a backwards roll, the Soldier hugged tight to him, so that Steve lands straddled on his opponent. He brings his fist down, again and again, broken bones forgotten in the moment, his punches hitting a solid steel muzzle instead of the brain he wants to be reaching.

“Steve!” He hears in his ear, and the slight distraction allows the Solider to swing a knee up into his stomach, flinging him off and onto his feet.

The Soldier flips himself upright, and dodges a bullet meant for his jugular, Steve’s shield up just in time to stop the shot not meant for him, from-

Natasha, running across the field towards them, no sign of Tony. He doesn’t blame the missed shot, no way a handgun would reach from the closing mile that she is away, but if it’s the only thing he can do for-. Steve needs to keep her safe, even though she broke her own promise.

Steve needs to kill the Soldier before she gets here. Before Tony, before Clint, before-

Bucky.

 _BuckyBuckyBucky,_ his hair a little haphazard and chest armour completely burnt away on the right, streaks of black and red and brown all over him but _here_. Steve’s so relieved, so whiplashed _again_ by his Bucky who just won't stay dead, that he almost drops his shield, his arms weak as the Soldier continue to pummel into his stance.

Steve needs to kill the Solider before Bucky gets here, which won't be long. He's running faster than Natasha, but Steve can’t let Bucky near him, he’s already done so much damage from so far away, so he pushes back, with everything he has, as much of the Captain America Dr Erskine and Howard Stark made him to be, as much as the spirit of Steve Rogers the Peggy believed him to be.

It's not enough.

Steve knows that the manic glee in the Soldier's eye isn't good, he's assured of if when he feels the slight pinprick of _something_ on his exposed neck, so he allows him half a second to look away from the assassin. He turns, and life has a way of repeating itself; like he does each night, each time he closes his eyes, the one thing he saw as he put a plane full of bombs down in the Artic, Bucky’s is the last face Steve sees before his world goes black.

It’s only a moment, and he doesn’t even understand why what when he comes to, until the wildfire running up his spine screams at his brain in reason. His back arches off the ground of no accord of his own, none of his limbs are, just flailing and trying to escape the sudden prone position and paralysis of pain he’s found himself in. 

It's a pain so great it's almost unbelievable, he feels nothing and everything all at once.

Steve tries, he really tries, to reach for whatever is causing his brain to fry and his bones to melt to liquid and his blood to boil, but even the little control he has over his arm is wrested from him when the Soldier stands firmly on his forearm. The crunching of bones is minimal against the agony that is the current coursing through him. It's too painful to even scream, though he's not sure he can, maybe he's bitten his tongue off, maybe that's the wet in his mouth. 

He can feel the darkness coming again, there’s no breath in his vibrating lungs, his heart’s own stimuli beginning to falter under repeated abuse, and he has to shut his eyes tight to stop his eyeball popping out of his head so that he can see Bucky one more time on the back of his eyelids. 

And then it’s gone. The electricity is gone, the crushing weight on his arm is gone, the cold, dead eyes of the Soldier as he stares down at Steve is all gone.

Because Bucky, fucking Bucky, has tackled the Soldier at such a speed that they’re both flown almost 50 yards from where Steve is a now melted mess of once human being on his back.

Steve knows how this ends though, Bucky alone with Hydra without him. His whole body a puddle, he uses any anger he has left in the world, at what has been done to Bucky, to scoop himself off the ground, to pick up his shield. It takes longer than he likes, for even his eyes to focus, to get himself up onto trembling legs, zapped of all energy. In those few moments, they’ve already begun. 

It's no Lindy Hop, no Foxtrot, no Tango, but it doesn't matter what it is, because Steve was never a good dancer at anything, and he’s entering the song too late. They’re moving too quickly, Bucky deliberately away from where Steve is still struggling to his feet, away from where Natasha is running from, but closer to the Soldier.

It's stupid, Bucky should know better than to expose himself, to keep himself open in order to land his own blows on intact armour. But he continues to do so, and getting away with it. The knives come and go, knocked out as soon as each of their infinitive supplies provide them, and there’s twisting around each other, for seconds, it’s all only seconds until Steve finally stands on burnt out feet and takes his first steps towards them, when Bucky  
  
  
Just.  
  
  
Stops.  
  
  
And so does the Soldier.

They were so expertly placed, quicker than Steve’s eye could see, but sharpened metal landed through thin undershirt to bare skin. Not needing depth or hazard, just precision, blood starts to flow from Bucky’s chest, fountains from his neck, and through the open wet of his stomach, Steve can see the glint of bone and something else from his slowly closing distance.

“BUCKY!” He roars, as much as a baby lion could, as Bucky calmly brings his hand up to his neck, fingers doing nothing to stem the steady stream between them. Steve throws his shield, he means for Bucky to catch it, to use it, but Bucky's movements are already jerky and uncoordinated, his arm barely up.

The shield hits, just right, knocking off Bucky’s metal prosthetic into the Soldier’s throat, and he stumbles back, out of arm’s reach of Bucky. The rebound returns the shield to Steve, and knowing his current limits, throws it again, landing an edged hit to the Soldier's temple, causing him to stagger further back.

Right into Natasha’s gun.

Through the same temple Steve assaulted, she takes him down execution style. Then twice more, the neck and heart, to be sure, but Steve doesn't know, doesn’t care, not for anything since he saw Natasha moving in the corner of his eye, racing away before he knew she’d get there in time, not for anything except that for in the time it’s taken him to reach Bucky, he’s already collapsed. Steve could be pleading, he could be yelling, he doesn’t know, because all he can see is Bucky, unmoving, coloured by red, red, red of blood where before Steve only knew white, white, white of snow.

He doesn’t want to know either of these, he wants to know Bucky and his loud family, his bed in Washington, even the damned VA meeting and skipped breakfasts and practice knife fights that never ended like this.

But Steve doesn’t get to, doesn’t know any of this, because after one final, small gurgle that splutters blood out of his full lips, Bucky sighs, and his eyes drift shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Song.
> 
> Kodaline was born after listening to After The Fall, which spurned a letter, which lead to All I Want, which lead to here. It’s very important to me that I write until I had done each song what I hoped to be justice, and sometimes when I hear a new song, I get a new idea. For me, All Comes Down has run its course. I understand if there are less than savory feelings about the resolution of this story, heck I know, I had them myself, but this was all the song had to offer me. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts (as long as they're mindful that there is a person receiving them) about the story as a whole, or this chapter and if it's what you thought would happen, and even your hopes and dreams for the future! 
> 
> There’s so much more I have to offer in this narrative, if you’d care to stay. If not, thanks for everything so far!


End file.
